


The Courier's Revenge

by ScrimshawPen



Series: The Courier from the East [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Betrayal, Canonical Character Death, Gen, No happy endings, No successful romances, Quests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-03-29 02:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 76,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrimshawPen/pseuds/ScrimshawPen
Summary: There's a heavy load of delayed consequences waiting for the Courier in the Divide in the form of answers, enemies, and former allies. But first, she needs a well-deserved vacation at the Sierra Madre! Sequel to "The Courier and Her Conscience," this two-part DLC story picks up several months after Hoover Dam. Rated T for violence and dark elements.





	1. Book I: Previously in Vegas

**Author's disclaimer: I do not own Fallout and will not profit in any way from this story.**

* * *

"We have to stop for the night. Judah's knees…" Arcade Gannon halted and repressed a sigh of impatience, acceding reluctantly to Daisy's request. At forty, he was the youngest of their group of four, and struggled to keep to a pace that his two human companions - both in their mid-seventies - could match. His third companion on this trip, a two-hundred-year-old nightkin, had no such limitations and could have kept up a marching pace for days without rest, but travelling with her had complications of its own. A week in Lily's company - and ten terrifying minutes in the presence of Leo, her psychotic alter-ego - had put a strain on all of them, particularly on two of the three remaining Enclave Remnants, who had no love for mutants. It fell to the somewhat less-prejudiced doctor, then, to engage with her delusions, non-sequiturs, and occasional violent impulses. To the others' amusement (and to Arcade's intense annoyance), she had cheerfully adopted him as yet another surrogate grandchild, calling him "Archie" and volunteering to knit him a sunshine-yellow poncho.

While Daisy Whitman started throwing dried meat and vegetables into a stew for dinner, and Judah Kreger massaged his aching joints, Arcade took a few minutes to scope out the area for signs of danger - he'd been attacked by giant wasps on this stretch of road before, and still had the scars to prove it - and then returned to the campsite with an armful of kindling. From a stand of trees a little further off of the road, he could hear the cracking, snapping sounds of Lily tearing dead trees limb from limb for the remainder of their firewood. She  _was_  helpful, not to mention excellent insurance against an attack from most rational enemies; no bandit would willingly choose a confrontation with an eight-foot-tall monster carrying a sharpened vertibird rotor-blade for a weapon.

Watching the yellow flames lick at the twigs and grass under the fire he'd laid, he sighed openly. By himself, he could have been back in Westside in three hours, easily, and sooner if he pushed it. Now they would have to spend another night out in the wild; by itself, that didn't bother him too much. But there was another reason he had wanted to be back sooner rather than later…

"She's  _fine_ , Arcade." Daisy's voice was knowing and sympathetic. "Really. I know you're worried, but she's seemed okay to me lately. Not happy, exactly, but  _focused_. Don't you think?"

"Yes…" She was right, but Arcade was still worried about the friend he'd left back in town a week ago. There were many reasons to fear that Megan Martin - sometimes known as the Courier - would  _not_  be alright left to her own devices for very long. The last year and a half of her life had been marked by trauma on top of trauma. Most recently, she'd been shot, imprisoned, and tried as a criminal by the NCR on the suspicion of being a member of the Enclave and on top of this she'd seen two of her closest companions killed in the past six months. All of this was seasoned by an unstable emotional foundation (due at least in part to the bullet that had stolen the first twenty years of her memories) and a predilection for substance abuse that had almost cost her life earlier in the year.

All that said, the person he had brought back to Westside with him was a person transformed by a new mission; it wasn't a mission that he approved of - in fact, it scared the hell out of him - but it kept her on the straight and narrow, away from drugs and alcohol, and determined to force her battered body back into a state of health as fast as possible. These were all  _good_  things, he admitted, and whatever she was doing in the hours while he was working in town, it was helping. Six months ago, picking bits of shattered rib out of the bullet wound that had passed through her liver, he hadn't even been confident she'd survive, let alone run or fight again. She'd proven him wrong, taking back her independence little by little until she could go where she wanted, slowly expanding her range beyond the walls of Westside and into the desert beyond.

His problem was that he no longer knew where she went or what she did out there, and she gave only vague answers (and sometimes obvious lies) to direct questions. This was hard. He told himself that she wasn't a child and that he wasn't her father, but he'd accepted a protective role toward her for so long that it was hard to turn it off now, even if she  _did_  deserve a shot at autonomy. Still, she wasn't making it easy. Two weeks before, Lily had carried her back, an hour after dark. That in itself wasn't unusual. With the friendly mutant as her backup, she could - and often did - push her limits without serious consequence. What made this instance alarming were the defensive wounds all down her forearms, cuts that had sliced through leather arm guards to the skin below, some deep enough to require stitches.

He pulled out a bottle of antiseptic and set to work, finally summoning up the nerve to ask when he was halfway through, "What happened, Megan?"

She tucked her chin to her chest, out of weariness or shame, he wasn't sure. "Mantis nest. We were right on top of them when they burst out. They go right for the face." The lie was offered up lazily, as if she didn't care if he knew it wasn't true. And it wasn't. This looked like knife work to Arcade, clean-edged and straight; mantis claws would have left jagged tears in the flesh, and would actually have healed much fasted. He wondered why she didn't want to tell him she'd been in a fight.

"That so?" He let some of his skepticism, combined with open concern, come through in his voice.

"Yeah, Arcade. That's right. Don't  _worry_. It's not bad." And then she had smiled a rare smile, letting the hardness in her eyes fall away like scales, and once again she was almost the sweet young woman he'd met near Goodsprings the previous summer, before everything had happened.

If he had tried to express his uneasiness in words, it would have come out like this: it was as if she was two people. There was the cold, closed-off one who stalked out every morning to do  _something_  dangerous with Lily as her only companion, returning each day with new bruises, meat for dinner, scrap to sell, or a jingling bag of caps. Upon returning home to the crumbling ranch-style house she and Arcade now shared with Judah and Daisy, she'd set aside this mask along with her weapons and armor, taking up the role of "the kid" in the house. This person would help make dinner, haul water from the pump, and make light conversation with the others. Afterwards, she'd listen attentively as Arcade read aloud from their current book (in the past few months, they'd finished the major works of Tolkien and moved on to an English translation of Homer at her request) and then they'd talk. Mostly he would talk and she would listen. Not much about the immediate past or the immediate future - these were taboo topics lately - but about the impractical irrelevancies that they both enjoyed: literature, language, and history. He'd had the best education that post-apocalyptia had to offer and she was illiterate from brain damage, but their mutual love of learning was their best commonality, and the most comfortable retreat from inconvenient or frightening realities. And there were a lot of these in their lives, enough that any escape was a welcome relief.

He and the others had departed very early in the morning for Jacobstown, wanting to make it to a safe check-point - an old bunker - by sundown. When he went to say goodbye, Megan had been sitting cross-legged on her cot in the room she shared with Arcade, eating a mutfruit and flipping through a comic book. She glanced up sleepily at his entrance.

"We'll be back in a week." She knew that, of course, but he had a tendency to reiterate things when he was nervous.

She nodded, still looking at the pictures in her magazine. "Mmhm. I know."

"Eight days at the most."

"I  _know_ , Arcade. It's fine."

"We have to take Lily with us so that Henry can apply his new surgical fix to her mental disorder. So she hopefully won't have to take the antipsychotic medication anymore." He wished Lily  _were_  staying behind, even if she did need to follow-up with her treatment; she adored Megan, and could keep her safe from almost anything short of an army.

Megan cleared her throat impatiently. "We've gone over all of this already. Just go. I won't fall to pieces out of your sight. I don't depend on her as much anymore. I'll be careful.  _You_  should be careful. That's a dangerous road."

"Promise me…"

She interrupted him with a list. "No chems, no drinking. I won't intentionally hurt myself. I won't act without thinking. I won't pick fights I can't win. I won't overdo it." She rattled these off glibly, finally closing the comic book and looking at him with an exasperated look in her eyes. "I know my track record isn't good, but you  _need_  to trust me to take care of myself. Please."

He looked her straight in the eye. "Promise me you won't go to the Divide alone."

She sighed, stood up, and wrapped her arms around him in a farewell hug. She'd shaved her hair short again and it tickled his chin. Voice muffled in his coat - in mid-November, it would be chilly in the mountains, and he was dressed for it - she promised, "I won't. We'll go together. Soon."

That last conversation had been eight - no, going on nine - days before. It had taken longer to get there and longer to return than Arcade had anticipated; for all that Megan had elected to remain in Westside out of fear that she wouldn't be able to keep up, in retrospect he thought she was easily Judah's equal in that regard. The cold nights and the elevation were brutal on the old man, enough that they almost turned back after the first day. He had insisted that they press on, though.

All in all, their trip to Jacobstown to visit the third and last of their little group (and to memorialize Orion Moreno and Cannibal Johnson, the two they'd lost in the past year) had held a bittersweet feel. They were all getting older and it showed. Despite the fact that he was still operating on his research subjects, Dr. Henry's sight and hearing were failing, forcing him to delegate more and more to his research assistant. Judah was slowing down. Only Daisy seemed physically unchanged, but a bitter note had crept into her voice of late. The last survivors of a proud group of soldiers, the world had moved on since their day, leaving them far behind. As they departed from the mutant community, there was no casual talk of future reunions; they all accepted without saying it that this would be the last time they saw Henry, and the last time they were all together. Arcade, too, was preparing to move on, planning to leave the Mojave for parts unknown.

A creeping sense of malaise lingered over them as they ate and settled into to sleep around the fire; no one felt like talking very much, and conversation died before it could get started. Lily needed little rest, but no one trusted her to keep a good watch, and so the other three took it in turns to stay awake, making for a short night of broken sleep for them all. And then they were back on the road, moving at a snail's pace down the twisting mountain road to home.

He found himself bringing up the rear with Lily, letting the other two set the pace. The mutant was knitting and walking at the same time, needles the length of his forearm and the thickness of railroad spikes flashing in the sunlight. Arcade was impressed at her dexterity and skill, and wondered idly where she had found the yarn. He supposed that most people underestimated her - himself included - and it suddenly occurred to him that she might be more perceptive that he had given her credit for.

"Lily, can I ask you a question about Megan?" This was going to be an invasive line of questioning, but he didn't know any other way to access the girl's state of mind.

She cast a new set of stitches on her spears and exclaimed enthusiastically. "Of course, Archie! You can ask Grandma anything."

He winced at the nickname, but pressed on. "What does she talk about when she's with you?"

The creature cocked her head for a moment, thinking. "Boys, mostly. Just like any girl her age." She added, a little disapprovingly. "She should spend more time on her studies."

"Uh… yeah. Right. What boys?"

"Grandma can't remember any names, sweetie-pie. There's the  _nice_  one, the  _dead_  one, and the  _bad_  one. Leo will smash him someday."

Arcade nodded. He figured he was the "nice one" (somehow), and it didn't take a genius to identify Boone and Ulysses with the other two. He was glad to hear that she was processing things with  _someone_ , even if it was a schizophrenic nightkin.

"Has she talked about the… trip we're going to take?"

She pursed her huge lips, a frown spreading across her rough features. "Yes. Maggie is  _very_  afraid."

"Afraid of the 'bad boy,' you mean?"

"No..." Lily seemed to be struggling with the words to convey what she was thinking. "Maggie and her little friends went for a field trip there once and had a bad time. The poor dear is scared to death of going back. But she says she has to. Grandma doesn't understand."

Arcade fell silent, leaving Lily to her knitting. He had begun to connect the dots on Megan's past, and apparently she had done the same thing behind the facade she'd kept up all these months. He had theories - some much worse than others - and also feared the answers they'd find there. The person  _he_  knew - the amnesiac ex-courier - would never willingly participate in an plan to hurt innocent people; the Enclave soldier who had come west with her team, however, might very well have. And  _something_  had motivated Ulysses to act as he had. Whatever she learned about her past, he suspected that the truth would be devastating; even so, the not-knowing and the half-knowing had caused its own set of problems. Maybe this  _would_  help, in the long term, with resolving the nebulous cloud of guilt that dogged her steps.

Arcade felt a sense of foreboding as they crossed the last stretch of open space in front of town. It looked like trouble ahead: a half-dozen sturdy men and women, dressed in heavy, hooded robes, were milling around without going in. He could hear raised voices, even at a distance. Arcade led the way forward, hoping to defuse whatever the situation was. He wasn't a diplomat, not really, but he  _was_  calm and patient compared to the others. This turned out to be a good move.

He walked up to the group, keeping his eyes on the assumed leader, the man the others were oriented toward. "What's the trouble here?"

He was a big bear of a man, with bristling salt-and-pepper hair and a huge beard. His robe hung slightly crookedly on his huge frame, and beneath it Arcade caught a glimpse of a laser rifle. When he spoke, his voice was haughty, " _We_  are looking for a thief, and the guards here are obstructing our investigation. They won't even let us in to search."

"That  _does_  sound frustrating," he agreed. "However, Westside is a refuge to many on the fringes of the NCR, and as such makes and enforces its own laws. We're not crazy about opening our doors to a posse, in other words. Who are you looking for? And what did they steal? And from where?"

The man glared at him. "We'll ask the questions, civil-... we'll ask the questions. Who are you?"

"Easy, Roger." A middle-aged woman standing at the man's elbow put a restraining hand on his arm, and handed Arcade a small square of stiff paper. "This is the person we're looking for. A youngish woman, about thirty years old. She stole a piece of tech - a vehicle, actually - from a farming community several days' travel to the northwest. We think she was travelling this way, but it's taken us a while to catch up on foot. She would have come through about a week ago."

Hiding the sudden spike in his blood pressure with a yawn, Arcade studied the picture for a minute. The snapshot of Veronica Santangelo looked several years younger. Happy and untroubled. He shook his head and handed the picture back. "Sorry, she doesn't look familiar. And the only vehicles around here are brahmin carts. We've been gone for over a week, though, and would have missed her."

The man glared at their group, eyes lingering hatefully on Lily's hulking form. "Where are you...  _people_  coming from?"

"It's not really any of your business, but if you must know… a family reunion in the mountains. Excuse me."

Hoping he wasn't about to be shot in the back, he walked away from the questioners as casually as he could, gesturing for the others to follow him through the entrace. Judah caught up with an effort and muttered in his ear, "You didn't have to bow and scrape to the likes of them. We could take those blowhards, you know. Especially with the mutant on our side."

Arcade thought the man was joking, but shut down the suggestion reflexively, staring straight ahead, "We don't want to risk trouble with that lot, especially a group from California. It's bad enough that they're here at all." He accelerated to a fast walk, needing to assure himself that Megan was securely at home. If the Brotherhood of Steel was sniffing around Westside, then she needed to lie low for a while; the grudging "not guilty" verdict that the NCR had given her would mean nothing to them.

To his dismay, the house was empty, and had been for several days at least, based on the staleness of the air and the slightly shrivelled appearance of the lone piece of fruit left in the bowl. Everything was in its place except for Megan's travel gear, her armor, and her weapons. Daisy had lingered outside on the step, smoking, before carrying her pack in. Her voice caught Arcade in the middle of searching the bedroom for clues.

"The neighbor says she hasn't seen anybody go in or out for a week," the former pilot informed him. "She didn't see her leave, either, but admits she wasn't really paying attention."

No one else in town could add any more to this. Frustrated, angry, and afraid, Arcade set off on the several-mile trip around Vegas, noticing as he left that the Brotherhood of Steel patrol was now nowhere to be seen. His first stop was the New Vegas Clinic. If his friend had been injured in his absence, she may have gone there. Dr. Usanagi, a former colleague and a good friend, was happy to see him but had no reassuring word. "Sorry, Arcade, I haven't seen her."

He ground his teeth, and turned his face toward the place that had been his home for most of the last six years: the Old Mormon Fort in Freeside, local base of operations for the Followers of the Apocalypse. Walking through the gates, he was surprised how many new faces he saw, and how busy the place was. Clearly, his former faction had prospered in the wake of their ascent to a position of power in Vegas. They had repaired the wall that had been damaged in the Battle of Freeside, and even added another permanent structure on one side.

A skinny kid half his age wearing a lab coat much too big for him ran up and asked if he needed any medical help.

Feeling naked here without a white coat of his own, he fumbled awkwardly with his words. "No thanks, I'm looking for someone. Meg-... the Courier. Has she been here this week?"

The young man's face cracked into a broad smile. "Dude, why would the Courier come  _here_? She was this wicked-awesome Enclave soldier who escaped the NCR and flew away in a vertibird before I even left California."

Arcade glared at the boy for a second, then asked, as politely as he could manage, "Is Julie Farkas here?"

Behind him, a familiar voice answered his first question, "She hasn't been here, Arcade." To the eager Follower, she said only, "I've got this, Joseph."

Arcade turned around wearily. It was the same old Julie - a little more tired, perhaps, and with a few more lines around the eyes - regarding him warily. He nodded and started walking away. He took three steps and then he changed his mind and returned, demanding with a harsh whisper, "Why did you do it, Julie? What could so thoroughly scramble your sense of morality that you'd hand an innocent person over to be killed?"

Julie dropped her eyes. "She was exonerated…"

"No. That answer's not going to fly with me. It could very easily have ended the other way."

She tried again. "I knew General Grisham would speak for her. I talked to him while he was recovering from his injuries after the battle."

This was news to Arcade, but he shook his head. "Still not good enough."

Her shoulders slumped. "Fine," she said, her voice dropping. "I did it to save my uncle, and that's the truth. Mike Lawson was my mother's sister's husband. They raised me after my parents died. He was always very pro-NCR, but supported me all the same when I chose to join the Followers."

He didn't understand why she was offering up this information about her family. "Who's Mike Lawson?"

"Up until May of this year, he was the head engineer at Hoover Dam."

A light dawned in Arcade's mind. " _Ah._  So he was the one-"

"I walked into Elizabeth's quarters that night - no one questioned it, I was there often enough, and it was a chaotic time - and used her private radio to contact Uncle Mike. He was the only one on duty in the Dam control room at midnight. I told him exactly what he needed to do and I was in and out in under fifteen minutes."

He thought he understood. "You assured him that you'd try to bargain for his pardon if he diverted the power."

Her face twisted with anguish. "No. I asked, and he did it expecting to be punished, because he didn't want me - or the hundreds of other people in Freeside - to die for political reasons."

Arcade pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He was getting a headache. "So this was an exchange of hostages. They must have arrested him pretty much immediately after the dust had settled."

Julie nodded miserably, still looking at the ground. "I knew you'd be trying to spirit her away if I gave you much more time, and I couldn't risk that. I tipped them off. They released Mike that same day. I'm  _sorry_ , Arcade. Please tell Megan I'm sorry too." Her voice was pleading now.

"I will when I find her," he said automatically. He was too drained to continue to be angry at Julie at the moment. He hesitated, then said, grudgingly and a little stiffly, "Convey my gratitude to your uncle. It can't have been easy for him to throw away his reputation like that, but it was the right thing to do. I appreciate that courage."

She sighed, grinding her palms into her eyes. "I would if I could. He never got over the ignominy, and died two months ago. A stroke."

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said between gritted teeth. There seemed to be nothing more to say, and he walked away. He worried that, if he stayed, he might scream, cry, or laugh.

"Arcade, hold up a second." Sniffling, eyes shiny, Julie caught him before the gate could shut behind him. "Ignacio wants to talk to you. About his team's trip to the Divide."

"They shouldn't go there." The words were out of his mouth before he could catch them. "There's a murderous  _frumentarius_  hiding among the tombs, for starters."

"Talk to him," she said again, more urgently. "Tell him what you know. They leave in three weeks."

"Maybe." He was done with this conversation and done with Julie. "I've got to go."

The return trip took longer and it was evening before he'd drawn into visual distance of the gates. He was thirsty, hungry, and footsore, and both furious at and anxious for Megan. "This is my life now," he told a clump of purple sage in passing. "This is what I get for being the responsible one."

A unexpected sound from the southwest - a low, keening wail - set his already tense nerves further on edge. He couldn't place it, though he thought it had a mechanical feel to it. The guards on the walls ahead heard it as well, and drew their guns. Keeping his back to the gates, Arcade took his own pistol in hand and retreated slowly toward the gates, straining his eyes toward the jagged teeth of the ruins to the west. Whatever it was, it was getting louder. Closer. Two red lights emerged from the gloom and he saw it - a low, bullet-like craft, like a wheel-less car with three turbines on the back, swept around the edge of the nearest clump of buildings, and executed a wide looping approach before it began to slow about a hundred yards away. Black smoke billowed thickly from its rear, and as he watched, its repulsor-lifts failed on one side, dumping the body of the vehicle on its side and dragging it in a large, rough circle before the sand finally brought it to a shuddering stop.

Alarmed, but somehow not all that surprised, Arcade holstered his gun and jogged toward the scene of the crash. As he did so, the red lights shut off and the struggling turbines ceased their attempt to spin. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that the craft was a two-seater and both were occupied; as he'd half-suspected already, he recognized the two women as Megan and Veronica. Megan was fighting to be free of the tangled web of harness holding her onto the tilted seat, but Veronica hung limply in place, eyes closed.

Arcade went to the unconscious woman's side first, keeping his question simple, "Did she hit her head?"

"I don't know. I don't think so." Megan groaned, fumbling for the release on her own restraints. "She's been asleep for hours. She's completely exhausted."

As if on cue, Veronica opened her eyes and mumbled thickly, "Are we there yet? Why are we sideways?"

"The landspeeder crashed."

"I knew I shouldn't have let you drive."

"Fuck you, Veronica. I got us here, didn't I?"

Arcade helped unclip the two of them and they clambered or rolled out. Veronica melted into a boneless heap ten yards away, but Megan went around to the hatch on the back and began to pull things out, handing them to him to carry. He accepted two long guns without complaint - a modified LAER and what appeared to be a sniper-style energy rifle - but balked at the bag she tried to hang on his shoulder.

"Don't treat me like a pack brahmin," he told her irritably. "What's in there, bricks?"

She grinned, a little too broadly. "Good guess! Alright, I suppose I can get this one. Veronica, move your lazy ass and come carry your shit."

She responded in a dazed voice from her place on the ground. "Leave it. I'm just going to sleep here."

"No, you're not," she cajoled bracingly. "C'mon, there's water, food, and beds in town." When there was no response, she shouted at the top of her lungs, making Arcade jump in surprise, "There's a ghost chasing you!"

When Veronica only twitched at this peculiar threat, Arcade muttered to Megan, moving to set the weapons on the ground, "Calm down. Forget the stuff. We'll come back for it. Let's get her inside. She really doesn't look good."

"She's just worn out and depressed," Megan complained. "I don't want to leave these things here. I've got some epinephrine I can stick her with… we've been using that to stay awake..."

Luckily, at that moment, a curious Lily - flanked by several of the more adventurous townsfolk - came to investigate. As gently as a mother cradling a newborn, the nightkin carried the semi-conscious scribe in her arms, leading the way back while the overloaded pair followed. A knot of curious onlookers stayed behind to study the smoking hovercraft.

Megan looked up at Arcade with a cheerful smile, stumbling over the rough ground as she did so. "I missed you. How was your trip?"

Anger had taken the place of worry. "It was okay. I'm pretty upset with you."

" _Why_? Because I left? I was bored. Veronica's invitation - for all that it was delivered at gunpoint - was exactly what I was looking for. Something interesting to do." She seemed genuinely perplexed at his attitude.

"'Delivered at gun-...' Wait, she kidnapped you?" He stuttered in confusion. "I'm mad because you left without telling anybody where you were going."

She looked over earnestly, eyes pleading. "We left before anybody in town woke up. But I made Veronica write a note before I'd go with her. Left it under the water pitcher. I assumed you would see it pretty much immediately if you got back before we did."

He shook his head numbly. "I spent the day looking for you. I barely set foot in the kitchen."

"I'm sorry, Arcade." She sounded genuinely apologetic. "I didn't mean for you to worry. I didn't expect this 'milk run' to take more than a few days, either. Veronica didn't lead with the truth about the nature or difficulty of this venture. After learning what I learned, however, I don't blame her anymore. I was happy to help. It helped take my mind off… things."

The last of his anger fading, he was curious now, "Where did you go? Did you know that the Brotherhood of Steel is looking for her?"

She yawned. "I'm not surprised. On that note, we should ask Lily to drag the landspeeder into town so that no one sees it. To answer your question, we spent a week at a pre-war resort out in Death Valley. It wasn't as much fun as it sounds. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, okay? It's a long story, and I'm beat."

Tired, but relieved and mostly mollified, Arcade set his curiosity aside, accepting that he would know everything soon. He wondered to himself how Judah and Daisy would feel about sharing house room with a disgraced Brotherhood scribe, and decided not to tell them right away. There was only so much dysfunction their little family could take.


	2. Invitation to the Sierra Madre

_**Author's Note: For the purposes of geography, I'm assuming that the Sierra Madre occupies the same position as the real-world location Scotty's Castle, which is approximately 120 miles West-Northwest of Vegas by the shortest route. The architecture resembles that of the Sierra Madre slightly, and it was also constructed (by a gold prospector!) as a rich man's hideaway, back in the 1920s.** _

* * *

_One week before…_

The house was quiet.  _Too_  quiet. And they'd only been gone for two days! Megan found herself roaming back and forth between the bedroom, the living room, and the kitchen, as if expecting to find something new in those dim, empty spaces. She'd disassembled and cleaned her new gun - a sturdy little 10mm pistol she'd picked up at Miguel's - three times already by lantern light, flipped through every magazine in the place, and repeatedly searched the cupboards for a forgotten scrap of food to nibble on. Not because she was particularly hungry, but because she was bored. There was nothing… well, nothing except for a lonely little mutfruit, and she didn't want it. Unripe. Too sour.

Her months in that lonely little cell in McCarran had given her a horror of forced solitude and idleness, and the circumstances of the present brought all that back. She tried the radio, hoping to fill the silence with chatter and music, but found that the local stations were  _still_ off the air, pending the eventual repair of damages caused to the tower during the battle. Only the NCR was broadcasting, but it was nothing more than the usual limited musical repertoire mixed in with blatant propaganda, and she shut this off with a growl of disgust. Hoping to wear herself out enough to fall asleep, she tried some exercises in the rug and only succeeded in making herself depressed. She managed about five push-ups that Boone would have accepted, but anything that tried to engage the abdominal muscles directly hurt too much to be worth it.  _Oh well_ , she thought, lying on the dusty carpet, letting the ache fade away.  _That was still better than the last attempt_.

Her goal - her  _only_  goal - for this week had been to stay too tired to leave time for brooding. She'd managed this on the first day. She'd gotten up very early to see them off, then set off into the scrub with one of the co-op's brahmin to lay in a supply of fuel for the cookfires, a task that was physically tiring and at the same time required very little thought, allowing her to coast on autopilot for hours and hours, thinking of nothing at all. Gathering the fourth load had kept her out past dark and she had more or less fallen into bed upon returning, asleep in a moment.

Today, however, she had finished her entire mental to-do list with a full hour of daylight remaining and couldn't quite find the energy to tack something new on. She ended by trading a young mole-rat for a cooked dinner at the cafe, leaving before it could become the rowdy bar it turned into after sunset. Crowds bothered her, as did noise, and the temptation to use some of her rapidly-accumulating credit to buy booze would have been too great. Even in the early evening, the locals occasionally offered to buy her drinks - she hadn't gotten to know very many of them, but they knew her by reputation, as a firebrand that had stuck it to the NCR - and declining it every time wasn't easy. Knowing that she could go home and sleep it off every night for the next five days without Arcade ever knowing made it even harder. "You're a twitchy mess," she lectured herself constantly. "Grow  _up_. Focus. Remember what you're working toward."

Killing Ulysses involved dancing to his tune until the very end, and it galled her to admit how certain he'd been of her behavior. Boone's pointless murder had been nothing more than a stick to encourage her forward, and the fact that it was proving  _effective_ was maddening. Not that there weren't other reasons to seek him out. Ulysses had, after all, been the one who had pushed her into the job that brought her face-to-face with Benny's gun in the first place. He was also a  _frumentarius_ , or at least a former  _frumentarius_ , and that alone would have been sufficient reason to eliminate him. For some people, anyway. She, on the other hand, was done hunting Legion for the sake of hunting Legion. If it weren't for Boone, she could have forgiven (or forgotten) his other misdeeds. But, revenge aside, there was no telling how far a madman might go to prove his point, whatever that point was, precisely. Her choices, she believed, were to kill him now, or to spend a lifetime looking over her shoulder for his knife.

Killing him would be easier said than done, but she hadn't worried much about that detail yet; she would do it or she would die trying. Simple enough. But above all, at the highest priority, was that she couldn't give Ulysses a chance to talk. No monologues - and he sounded like a man who liked his monologues - and no last words. She had decided that months ago. Whatever he knew, or thought he knew, she didn't want to hear it. Wouldn't let it be spoken aloud. More to the point, she didn't want  _Arcade_  to know, and absolutely  _would_  have taken off to the Divide without him, if it weren't for the fact that she knew that she needed his help to survive.  _And_  had promised that she'd wait for him. But no matter. She'd silence Ulysses before he'd opened his mouth. Because he'd killed Boone and didn't deserve the chance to speak his piece. And, equally, because he knew too much about her. Thinking on this, a half-remembered word and a definition from a forgotten book alway floated up in her mind:  _doublethink_ , the mental capacity to hold contrary beliefs at the same time. She thought it was about political doctrinal in the original context, but found it applied to her own divided motivations as well.

If asked directly, she would have said, "I am motivated by vengeance." This wasn't a lie. But the truth was that none of the work, the exercise, the fights, the pain, and the exhaustion could completely drown out the second answer that always stopped at her lips, "I am terrified of discovery - even by myself - and would do almost anything to avoid it." Ulysses was the last link to her old self, and killing him would sever that connection forever, making it a purely internal matter. She hoped.

Only to herself (and to Lily) did she confess her agitation and doubt, pouring her secrets into that sweet, dumb, accepting ear as she once had confessed them to ED. It was at times like this that she envied the schizophrenic nightkin, whose two halves weren't at war and weren't enmeshed with each other, but had a clean break where Lily ended and Leo began. Lily might be delusional, but at least she seemed happy most of the time, despite all she'd lost in her long life. And despite all she'd done. She'd almost certainly carried out horrible things as a soldier in the Master's Army, but if she remembered them, or felt guilty for them, she never said anything. Megan envied this freedom as well, and sometimes fantasized about becoming a mutant to escape the prickings of her own conscience. Insanity had its appeal sometimes.

Not for the first time in recent months, she wished that the amnesia had been a hard reset, with no evidence to pick over, rather than the incomplete erasure she was left to work with. Her own mind was a palimpsest, the original writing rubbed out with a brutal hand, and then overwritten with a scattershot approach that let the blurry words below shine through sometimes - in dreams, unguarded moments, and a few skills that came easily to hand. The material evidence (an identity chip dug out of her arm, now tucked securely away with her personal mementos, and a laser pistol currently lying in one of the NCR's evidence lockers) would have been inconsequential without the accompanying revelations that burst out of her from time to time. They would have been merely the possessions of a deceased person whose face had only happened to resemble her own. As things stood, however, she felt she had to accept that person as her younger self, and all the baggage that went with that acceptance.

Constant self-deception does not lend itself well to long meditations, and she let her entire train of thought derail instantly at the sight of something interesting under the couch. Rolling over, she snaked a hand underneath, sneezing as she brought out a crumpled package thick with dust. She brushed it off, noticing with disappointment that it was just an empty cigarette package, bearing the stamp of the largest of the NCR's tobacco-growers. On closer inspection, it wasn't quite empty. There was one left.

Five minutes later found her outside, a borrowed lighter in hand, trying to smoke this latest distraction. The air was cool, but bearable with her serape - Raul's gift to her from the previous Christmas - wrapped around her. Even though the nearest neighbor was a stone's throw away, the darkness insulated her from them, making her feel like she was the only soul for miles around. Somehow, though, it was better than the loneliness inside the house.

Damn thing didn't want to light. A flick of her thumb, and a tiny flame appeared, trembling in the night wind, but the tip wouldn't catch. She cupped a hand around it and tried inhaling to pull the fire in… and success! She took an experimental draw and then another, pocketing the lighter while she examined the glowing tip. She could understand why people did this - it smelled awful, but it did have a heady buzz to it and exuded a calming effect on her strained nerves. Encouraged, she took a much deeper pull, and this, it seemed, had been a bad idea. Her lungs were burning, she was coughing, gagging, and trying not to be sick. It took another minute before her eyes stopped streaming, and she eyed the cigarette in her hand suspiciously. Scornful laughter from the shadows startled her so much that she dropped it in the dirt at her feet.

"Those things will kill you, you know." The voice was familiar, as was the brown robe, cowl pulled low over the eyes. The weapon in her hand was a new adornment, however.

Grinding the cigarette out under her boot and keeping her eye on the barrel of the laser rifle pointed straight at her, Megan spat to get the taste out of her mouth and stood up slowly, showing her empty hands to the other woman. "I doubt it. How's it going, Veronica?"

She gestured impatiently with the gun, a jerky movement that made Megan flinch. "Just get inside. We need to talk."

Veronica paced back and forth in the living room while Megan watched from the sofa. Twice, she glanced at the pistol on the coffee table, something her captor either hadn't noticed or didn't care about. She didn't think she would - or  _could_  - shoot the obviously distressed scribe, but it'd be nice to have  _some_ defense. She reached one hand out slowly to take it.

Veronica stopped and looked straight at her, making her withdraw her hand guiltily. "Is there anybody else here? Anybody going to come back suddenly?"

"No. Arcade and the others are gone for the next several days. Settle down, okay? You're making me nervous."

"Making  _you_  nervous… how do you think  _I_ feel, skulking into to this godforsaken town to recruit the likes of you?"

She cocked her head. "I don't know, but insulting me is not a good start if you need my willing cooperation. What do you want?"

Veronica sighed, resuming her back and forth tread. "I want you to come with me. Not because I  _like_  you, or anything, but because I need you."

"You sure know how to make a girl feel wanted. Why me?"

"Because I don't have anybody else I can ask." Her voice had been calm, but these words came out in an snarling crescendo, as her walking pace sped up. "I'm on the run from my own people and you're the only person I know who has the qualifications to be useful to me, for all that you're fucking Enclave scum…"

Megan cleared her throat, which still felt gritty and scratchy from the smoke, watching Veronica's hands on the rifle closely. "Hey, so, you haven't been around. Maybe you haven't heard. I was actually declared innocent of all that."

Veronica snorted at this, a lopsided grin cracking her stiff face slightly. "Yeah, I heard. Clearly, justice ain't all it's cracked up to be out here."

Choosing to ignore this, Megan continued, "As for actual ability… that's debatable. I'm not at 100%. You'll get…  _maybe_  two-thirds of a hired gun if you take me with you. I'm not being modest, either."

She waved the hand not holding the gun dismissively, and Megan noticed that she had donned her signature power fist as well. "It shouldn't be that hard. This is a milk run. But I can't do it alone."

"You could do better with almost any bodyguard you'd get for ten caps a day. But say I do come. What's in it for me?" Despite all these caveats, she secretly  _wanted_  to come, and didn't care if Veronica intended to force compliance out of her. Anything was better than another five or six days on her own.

In response to this, Veronica tapped on her gun, arching one eyebrow in contemptuous surprise. "You get to live?"

Megan winced. "Seems fair. I would have done it for nothing if you asked nicely, you know. You didn't have to make threats. So, where are we going? And would you really kill me?" She studied Veronica, frankly curious. Their strained relationship had fractured so quickly: in the space of one, tumultuous day about seven months before, the scribe had learned about her companion's Enclave past, been kicked out of the Brotherhood, and then been forced to stand by while the patrol sent to capture Megan killed Raul. A mere hour later, Megan and Boone had killed the patrol in retaliation, including a newly-promoted knight that Veronica had considered family. There had been no time for processing; they'd both been raw and hurt and hurtful, and they hadn't seen each other since. Before the other could answer, Megan decided to address the elephant in the room. "I still can't apologize for what I did that day, Veronica. It was necessary - not just for revenge, but for self-defense - and I would do it again. But insofar as I was a catalyst for suffering, I'm sorry."

Veronica ignored the first question. "I  _should_  kill you," she murmured, finally setting the heavy rifle down, leaning it against the armchair she sunk into. "I thought about it. You're a chaotic menace to the world and you don't even know it. But I wanted to give you a chance. Mostly because Alec told me you saved his life."

Megan smiled brightly. "He made it? Good. I wasn't able to follow up on most of the casualties from that night, not right away, and no one was later able to tell me what happened to him. I'm just glad I got him out of that damned armor before the NCR showed up."

"He shouldn't have been in it in the first place," she said dully. "He's only sixteen. We don't send 'em to war until eighteen."

"You can blame Arcade for that. The kid volunteered to fight and he just so happened to have some extra power armor. He did really well for someone so young. I wish he  _could_  be publicly honored for it."

"Hmmm." The scribe's face was inscrutable. By the light of the lantern, Megan noticed dark shadows under her eyes. "Yes, I found him at one of our bunkers in California. He should be fine there, or at least as safe as any of our order are right now. The Mojave chapter has almost entirely folded, withdrawn to the west or scattered elsewhere. There's only a handful of people left there, trying to secure the archives against discovery and salvage what movable tech they can." She stopped, then resumed determinedly, a fierce undercurrent in her tone. " _Did_  you kill the second patrol, Megan? They never made it back. No one found their remains, either."

"No. The Legion did. We-... I... saw them from the Vertibird, on the way back from the Dam. It was four against an army. They never stood a chance."

"You didn't assist them? Try to pick them up?" She was openly angry now, and Megan was taken aback. It was as if the scribe was intentionally ignoring that fact had only been out in the wastes to begin with for the sole purpose of killing or capturing Megan herself, Enclave armor and all. She decided not to remind her of this, though. It didn't seem wise.

"Um… you remember who I was flying with, right? My companions would have laughed at that suggestion, and I wasn't inclined to bring it up anyway. Raul's murder was still pretty fresh. At the time, I was just happy to see them taking each other out."

"Okay," said Veronica softly. "I guess that shouldn't surprise me. It kind of makes this easier for me. To answer your other question, you and I are going to a resort in what used to be Death Valley National Park. The Sierra Madre. A pre-war fortress for the ultra-rich. Someone important to me is being held captive there and I need your help to save her. We'll leave at dawn. I suggest you pack what you'll need for at least a week away and then go to sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day."

As if expecting her to bolt or attempt to overpower her, Veronica followed her around the house as she collected her gear from the various places where she'd dropped it on her way in. Without anybody else's space to worry about, she'd gotten pretty untidy and it took a solid ten minutes to find her right armguard behind the end table in the living room where it had fallen. As she was bundling up her spare clothing, she had a sudden thought. What if Arcade got back before they did? Presented with writing materials, Veronica sullenly agreed to the request that they leave a note.

"What does it say?" Megan asked, filling her canteen and Veronica's from the water pitcher in the kitchen.

She relinquished the note, which was actually just the empty cigarette package flattened out and scribbled over with the stump of a pencil. "It says, 'Megan and I went on a trip. Should be back in a week or so. Sincerely, Veronica Santangelo.'"

Megan glanced uncomprehendingly at the text before sliding the edge of it under the now-empty pitcher. "I would have thought a  _scribe_  would have more of a way with words. Thanks, though. Time for sleep? You can have Arcade's bed. He won't mind. Or, at least, he won't mind what he doesn't know about."

In response, Veronica dropped into the chair at the kitchen table, setting the lantern down in front of her. She pulled a notebook out of her bag with loose leaves of maps, charts, and lists and spread the pages over the table's surface. "Go ahead. I'll wake you when it's time to go."

Megan was ready to sleep at last, but she lingered at the edge of the circle of light to offer an olive branch. "Good night, Veronica. This may sound odd, but I'm genuinely glad to see you - no kidding at all - and I hope we can save your friend."

She got only a blank, incredulous look in return and gave up, leaving the woman to her solitary study.

* * *

"This… is… awesome!" Megan said again, reaching out a hand to skim the sea of grasses they were passing over, and earning another rebuke from Veronica to keep her arms inside the vehicle. The appropriately-named landspeeder that she now strongly suspected that the scribe had stolen from the Brotherhood was moving  _very_  fast, fast enough that they would reach their destination before lunchtime, despite its being over a hundred miles away as the crow flies. The rising sun at their backs, they passed bighorn grazing sedately and startled birds from the clumps of sage and Joshua trees they swerved around; once, a distance, Megan even thought she saw the profile of a deathclaw between two rocks before the the speeder whisked them safely out of sight. "Can I drive? You could take a nap. You look… really tired. No offense."

Veronica looked at the compass mounted on the dashboard and adjusted her course slightly. "No." She had volunteered almost no new information this morning, and was communicating mostly in monosyllables.

Disappointed, Megan studied the controls out of the corner of her eye anyway, watching what Veronica did, just in case she changed her mind. Her former friend was mad and miserable, but that didn't stop her from enjoying the moment. She  _loved_  this ride and really wanted one of her own. The seats were comfortable, although the safety straps were a little confining. The cockpit was open-air, but the windshield kept the rush of the wind from drowning out their words. It was almost like flying, and unlike during her first vertibird ride, she was alert enough to appreciate the thrill this time.

"So, who are we going to save? And from what?" When these questions were met by more cold silence, she pointed out, a little indignantly, "I need to know who I'm going to be fighting, you know."

She chewed on her lip, eyes fixed on the horizon. "I told you about Father Elijah, right?"

"Yeah. He's the one who kept y'all trying to hold Helios One for so long, right? Your former mentor." "Mixed feelings" was how Megan would have described Veronica's sentiments on the man, based on the rants and recollections she'd shared.

Her face hardened. "Mmhm. He went AWOL after that, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake, and the Brotherhood sent an assassin to clean up their mess. Her name was… Christine. She and I were  _together_ , once, but the Brotherhood - and Elijah - took pains to keep us apart. I still think about her, though. Thought I'd look her up now that I'm free to do whatever I want. Slipped into the bunker using my old credentials so I could ask around. That's when I learned that she never came back from her last mission."

Megan hummed sympathetically.  _This_  she understood. It put the threats and desperation into a context that made sense. "Not to be a downer, but are you sure she's still-"

" _Yes_ ," she snapped, shifting to a higher gear as they crossed onto a flat, sandy surface with no obstacles. "She's alive. I know that. But she's stuck. I'm going to get her out if it's the last thing I do. If she's moved on, I can live with that, but I need to know that she's safe before  _I_ can."

Megan reached out a hand, intended to pat Veronica on the arm to comfort her, then thought better of it. "Don't worry. If she's there, we'll get her out. I promise to be as helpful as I can."

The trip took about three hours, by which time the novelty had worn off somewhat. More rocks. More sand. More brush.  _Yawn._  It  _was_  interesting seeing more than just the circle of territory with Vegas at its center. Though she knew she was originally from farther -  _much_  farther - away, she couldn't remember ever having been more than thirty miles from the city in her life. This was a nice preview of the long trip she hoped to make one day, only they were going west now instead of east.

_There_ , ahead, nestled on a slight rise at the mouth of a canyon, stood their goal at last. Megan didn't know if it was the wind kicking up dirt or some other peculiar atmospheric condition, but the air grew noticeably hazy - almost reddish - as they approached. Her throat itched from whatever the particulate was and she tried to swallow the feeling away, with no success. She'd been in worse dust storms, but this was still annoying.

The first thing that struck Megan about the Sierra Madre up close was how the so-called luxury resort resembled nothing so much as a fortress, surrounded by high walls capped with concertina wire arranged artfully at the peaks. It was also  _huge_  - bigger than any settlement she had ever seen - and she could see multiple towering buildings within. Veronica navigated the little vehicle in a graceful, clockwise circuit around its walls, beginning at the massive parking lot on the eastern edge, and ending a quarter-way around, outside of a flat section of wall that looked exactly the same as all the rest, near what appeared to be an auxiliary lot. This space, like the larger one, was nearly empty, and the rusty vehicles that  _were_  there didn't seem like the sort that would have carried millionaires to their vacation spot - it was all blocky vans and flatbed trucks. Just outside of the main gates, she could see the remains of a bulldozer, permanently stalled in the act of clearing the way for landscaping.

"Was this place even open for business?" she asked Veronica, waiting until she'd brought the landspeeder to a resting stop on the asphalt before hopping out and stretching her cramped legs.

"No. It was about to, but then the world ended. Get your stuff." Veronica hoisted her own pack, and approached the wall with a tiny device in hand, which she held out in front of her. A  _click_ , and a previously invisible panel separated from the wall around it, revealing a hidden entrance.

"Have you been here before, then?" Megan asked uneasily, following her inside. Veronica didn't even turn her head in answer. When the door slid shut behind them, it was pitch black. Megan fumbled for her Pip-Boy and switched it on, casting a greenish halo onto the walls all around. They were inside what appeared to be the antechamber before a secondary door, which proved to be locked when she jigged the handle. Megan peered through the rectangle of glass in this to spy a long, low tunnel, sloping downward into darkness. She turned with a questioning look to Veronica, only to find that she had donned a gas mask in the last twenty seconds.

"Good idea. The air tasted a bit rank outside. Where's mine?" She heard a hissing noise above her heard and saw a cloud of colored gas, murky in the weird light, pouring out of a ceiling register. She tried to step back from it, but found herself lurching to the side, falling to her knees and coughing, short of breath and lightheaded, lungs starved of oxygen once more. "What?"

"Sorry about this," Veronica muttered, voice muffled by the mask, striding to the wall beside the door to examine an intercom there. "It's nothing personal. Well, it is a  _little_  bit personal, but mostly it's because you have a Pip-Boy 3000. It had to be you or one of the Boomers, and none of  _them_  deserve this. You sort of do."

It occurred to Megan then that she ought to go for her weapon and threaten Veronica until she took away the gas, handed over the mask, or opened the door to let the desert wind sweep away the poison that was choking her. With a monumental effort, fighting through air that had gone as thick as molasses, she got one hand up to her holster, managing to draw the gun out an inch or two before pausing for a rest, accidentally letting gravity carry her the rest of the way to the floor, boneless limbs folded under her.

"Why?" she gasped out, her plan forgotten, one cheek pressed against the cold tile. "Rescue?"

"Not quite the right word. It's more of a hostage exchange. You  _did_  promise to be, and I quote, 'as helpful as possible.' And it's not a death sentence. He just needs a warm body to follow directions. You can do that." She pressed a button impatiently, and spoke into the speaker. "Father Elijah? I've brought you what I promised. I've brought you the Courier."


	3. Mutually Assured Destruction

It was mid-morning in the grotty little kitchen, and the the little group assembled around the table was in no particular hurry to move on to the routine tasks of the day: they were all stiff and sore from the labors of the previous days  _and_  they had an interesting distraction. Having slept a generous twelve hours, Megan was alert and awake, happily regaling the others with tales of her adventures. Veronica slept on, unaware that she was being tried and sentenced over breakfast.

Megan paused in her meandering tale long enough to eat the last of the flat cornbread cakes on her plate, mashing the crumbs into the sticky puddle of agave syrup and scooping them up with relish. Mouth full, she studied the reactions of her three companions to the latest turn in her tale - there was unconcealed disgust from Daisy, disbelief from Judah, and resigned exasperation from Arcade.

Judah spoke up first, his indignance taking the lull in the story for an opening. "Wait, wait, wait… let's back up a few steps, if we can - I've got a  _Brotherhood scribe_  asleep in my guest bedroom? That's not acceptable. She needs to be out  _today_. I'm serious."

Megan had expected that, and nodded. " _Former_  Brotherhood scribe. But, you're right, this is awkward. If she's not awake by noon, I'll drag her out myself and set her up in that shitty hotel. She has the loot to linger there as long as she needs to figure out what she's doing next."

Even her most even-tempered listener was taken aback at this casual account of open betrayal. "I'm not usually one to cast aspersion on an olive branch, what could possibly have happened in such a short time for you to forgive her kidnapping, drugging, and selling you? I would personally be quite upset, and that's putting it lightly."

"Good question, Arcade." Megan took another bite to buy time. It was hard to explain to people who weren't her - and who hadn't been there in that casino - why she felt the way she did. Even Veronica had seemed confused by her insistence that they travel home together, as if she had expected Megan to leave her behind after she'd gained the upper hand following the final confrontation with Elijah. "I don't resent her… too much… because I feel sympathetic for the conditions that made her act the way she did. She was stressed, lonely, and desperate. And anyway, I didn't stand to lose anything much at the Sierra Madre. I was just a spectator for other people's drama and pain this week. I don't mean to betray any  _schadenfreude_  - that's not what I feel at all - but this was a really nice break in some ways." She finished rather lamely, "Anyway, she apologized. Sincerely."

"Well, that's alright then," said Arcade sarcastically. "She said she was  _sorry_." He appeared torn between amusement and frustration. "Was it safe there, in the Sierra Madre?"

Megan laughed. "Oh no. No no no.  _Very_  dangerous. We could have died in several different ways. I think Veronica knew it was  _bad_ , since she wanted to get Christine out, but I don't think she knew just  _how_  bad it was going to be. I hope not, anyway, because that would be a little distressing. In any case, we were both in the same boat pretty soon-"

"And you said you enjoyed this trip," Arcade interrupted, slightly accusing now. "Are you  _that_  much of an adrenaline junkie?"

She winced at this phrasing. "I can take or leave the old fight-or-flight… but yeah, I like novelty. Stimulation. Things to do. It doesn't  _have_  to be dangerous. But it often is."

A long sigh. "So what happened next?"

"Well, I had to let Veronica fill in the gaps of that first part, for obvious reasons… hey, is anybody going to eat the last pancake?"

* * *

"Father Elijah? I've brought you what I promised. I've brought you the Courier." Veronica waited a count of five, but heard only the dead crackle of the speaker and the continued hissing of the gas. She looked down on her one-time friend, arrested in a fumbling attempt to reach her weapon, noticing that her movements had stopped entirely. Frowning, she pressed the button again, "You should probably turn the gas off now. She's out." She was beginning to fill a bit swimmy herself, and realized that the mask was struggling to filter out all of the gas. Well, it  _was_  over two hundred years old; the seals were doubtless decayed.

The hissing stopped abruptly as the overhead lights came on, and Elijah opened his channel for communication. His voice - which had been once calming and authoritative to her ears - now sounded petulant and grasping, rambling on inconsequentially where he had previously been succinct and insightful. "Very good work, Veronica. I knew I could count on you, my dear." He laughed, a dry, creaky sound that sent chills up her spine. "So, you brought me a courier. Not the one I  _really_  wanted to bring here. I owe  _him_  a certain reward. But if what you told me is true - that this one turned the tide in the NCR's little squabble with those barbarians - then she  _must_  be capable and resourceful. A worthy participant in my plan."

Veronica had no idea what other courier he was talking about, but didn't press the point. "Er, yeah, about that…" she spared another look at the woman at her feet. "Let's just say she's pretty lucky." She had given Elijah only the most general rundown on Megan, not wanting to complicate their arrangement with the details. "She's a survivor," she concluded firmly. "She's not your average waster, that's for sure. She'll do what you want her to do if it means getting out of here and back to her miserable existence."

"Excellent!" She could almost see him rubbing his hands together with glee, and shuddered with repressed anger and grief. Was this really her beloved teacher? What had  _happened_  to him in the years since Helios One? He was still talking. "You'll find jumpsuits and a variety of smallclothes in the lockers to your right. Remove what she's wearing and redress her. Do the same yourself. Neither of you can get past the next level of security with any outside gear, including weapons or drugs, even medicinal chems. Anything with even the slightest bit of radiation or contamination gets filtered out. By force. Unfortunately, that includes your gas mask as well."

Veronica found the locker he meant, but stood holding a jumpsuit in its sealed bag, uncertainty preventing her from moving. One compromise led to another, it seemed. An invitation freely accepted had turned to a nasty act of betrayal, and she felt deeply uncomfortable about actually stripping her unconscious victim and putting her in this… prison outfit.  _Maybe it's not too late to turn back_ , she thought. To buy time to think, she kept talking. "You didn't say anything about disarming her before. I made sure she came prepared for the mission. And why do  _I_  have to put one on? Can't you just bring Christine in here, and I'll leave you to make this one do what you want?"

"No!" he barked impatiently. "I  _told_  you. Without a Pip-Boy to interface with, I  _can't_  communicate the details of my plan with the people already in there. I'm a prisoner myself. I have no hands but yours, Veronica.  _You'll_  have to drag the replacement in and locate Collar 12… that is,  _Christine_... for yourself."

"Collar 12…" Veronica froze in the act of unfolding the stiff, white canvas, shockingly clean and fresh despite all the years in storage. "You're a real piece of work, Elijah. Do you know how messed up all of this is? You're treating people like chess pieces."

"You must learn, child, that what would be wrong for you or for any of the common rabble of our order is not wrong for a visionary such as I am. The weight of the world is on my shoulders. I must be free from all rules. It is a high and lonely destiny, and I have suffered for it." It was his lecture-voice, one she knew well, but there was an element of madness to it that set her teeth on edge.

She dropped the bundled clothing on the floor, smearing the pristine jumpsuit with furry gray dust. "If you actually believe that line of bullshit, then you're insane. I can't trust you to honor your side of our agreement."

"The time for second thoughts passed when that door closed behind you, Veronica. I strongly recommend doing what I asked if you'd like to be assured of ever seeing Brotherhood's pretty bloodhound again." The menace came through clearly, even over the staticky airwaves. It was at that moment that Veronica abandoned the last of her affection for the old man; whatever compulsion was driving him forward, it had made him someone unrecognizable. But what could she do but obey him? He held all of the keys, could keep her here in the dark forever if he so chose.

 _This is my life now_ , thought Veronica grimly.  _I'm a predator who strips unconscious women and puts slave collars on them_.  _Where did I go wrong?_  Whenever she'd tried to think through this question in recent weeks, her mind had usually settled upon that day at the 188 when she'd decided that a ramble with a fresh-faced girl and her interesting companions was better than being the Brotherhood's personal shopper. That memory, added to what had followed, had helped to stoke the flames of resentment long enough to actually carry out her plan, but here, in this room, it was hard to hold on to to that anger.

All of her life, Veronica had thought of herself as an idealist and a reasonably good person, but it was becoming impossible to reconcile that self-image with her recent actions. "Nice people don't do stuff like this," she said grimly, rolling the Courier over to zip up the jumpsuit, fingers accidentally brushing skin that was mostly scar tissue. "You weren't my biggest mistake. I should never have let the Brotherhood - let  _Elijah_  - dictate the terms of my life. But I'm still doing it…"

"What was that, Veronica?" the speaker squawked from the far side of the room, making her jump. She had forgotten that he was still listening in.

"Nothing. Just talking to myself. Which collar should I put on her?"

"It doesn't matter. 21 is fine. Choose one for yourself as well and tell me the number."

Elijah wasn't making this easy for her. "What? Why?" she asked, still examining the metal loop marked with that number. It was thicker than she expected, though not particularly heavy, and it reminded her unpleasantly of an escaped Legion slave she'd met near Nipton. That woman's collar had been removed, but there had remained a ring of callused skin around her neck where the metal had chafed the skin.

"The collars are your best protection from the others," he explained firmly. "If you should meet any of  _them_  in your brief sojourn within, then that collar will be your only insurance against them trying to kill you. If any of the activated collars stops reading life signs, then the rest will detonate after a short countdown. They must all know that, as soon as you meet them. It prevents them from murdering each other… a necessary precaution for the greedy, short-sighted animals I usually find myself working with. You have other motivations, my dear, and I feel I can trust you. Your collar will be merely camouflage. Choose one and carefully follow my directions to remove the charge -  _don't_  clasp it on first…"

She did so, sliding the bar of compacted explosive material out of its slot and laying it aside. She read out the number written on the inside of the device. "13."

"Very good. It will still  _act_  like the other collars - and, if it's any consolation, your untimely death will take out your murderer as well." He spoke as if he was being extremely generous with this exception, and she could hardly restrain herself from snapping at him.

 _That means that Christine will die if I die_ , she thought miserably. She had an idea - perhaps she could only pretend to wear it, loosely hung around her neck. The ends must have been magnetized, however: as soon as they were brought near, they snapped together with a loud click that signalled the finality of her choice. A pattern of tiny LEDs glowed from within the mechanism at the front, and she looked down at the still-inactive collar designated for Megan with fresh hesitation.

"Hurry up and put the other one on her," Elijah snapped, all traces of benevolence gone, his impatience clearly audible now.

"Just a moment." Once it, too, was in place, Megan's collar appeared looser than Veronica's own - though they were about the same height, the younger woman had less muscle between the shoulders and neck. It wasn't loose enough to slip off, however. "I'm sorry," she whispered, not knowing why she bothered saying it.

In addition to clothing, Elijah had provided plain, well-made satchels for carrying whatever gear they found. He'd also left out a single, security-proof weapon of his own making - a long, heavy energy weapon of a sort Veronica had never seen before, jury-rigged from whatever he had found lying around. He had provided only enough microfusion cells for about twenty shots.

 _Thanks a lot_ , Veronica mused sourly, struggling to carry the damn thing while also dragging Megan down the long, smooth corridor of the service entrance. There were multiple layers of security, each of which opened briefly, then closed behind them, proof that Elijah was still monitoring their progress, even out of earshot of the active intercom. At each new checkpoint, blank-faced holograms scanned them thoroughly before stepping aside to allow them to pass.

Veronica's back ached from stooping and she stopped to rest just short of the last set of doors, this one marked with fading letters: EXIT TO EAST VILLA - FOUNTAIN PLAZA. She stopped for a rest, but scrambled back up when she noticed that Megan was beginning to stir. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation with her here in this tunnel.

The air outside was much worse than it had been on the outside approach, as if whatever miasma haunted the town were somehow contained by its walls. Its effect was instantaneous: whether because of some toxin or insufficient oxygen, it did not allow for easy breathing or a clear head. By the time she'd dragged her prisoner halfway from the wall to the fountain, Veronica found herself gasping, the beginnings of a headache pounding away. She left her twitching burden behind and walked upright the rest of the way to confront the hologram hovering above the fountain.

"Where is she, Elijah?" she asked, looking around. There was no one else to be seen at all, only dusty red buildings and a bone-dry fountain. There were no plants and no birds; she couldn't even see the sun through the red filter above.

"I don't know, child. I don't even know for sure that she's here. I have ways of listening in, but the female wearing that collar has said nothing self-identifying - and nothing at all in recent days, in fact. I only know that a living person is currently wearing it. It's  _probably_  the person the Brotherhood sent to kill me."

She felt herself go cold with dread and disgust despite the uncomfortable heat of the open square. Though the direct rays of the sun were blocked by the reddish fog that hovered overhead, there was a greenhouse effect trapping the heat in, making it stuffy and uncomfortable. "This is where her trail led me. Where her last message said she was going. Where else could she be?"

Though the hologram was an undynamic image, the suspended image of Elijah's stern visage seemed to ripple in a dismissive shrug - or maybe it was just the tone of his answer that gave her this impression. "Where else indeed? Now, go shake the other one awake. I have instructions for you both."

"I'd rather be long gone before she wakes, actually." She looked uncomfortably behind her. Megan was still down, but was now rubbing her face with one hand.

"Not so fast, Veronica. You see, I need all the prisoners I can get, and certainly no fewer than four… five would be even better. If you insist on leaving now, I won't stop you. For old time's sake. But you'll leave without the person you came for. Go ahead - I'll open the service tunnel again." His voice twisted mockingly here at the end, as if he knew her answer already.

"You said if I brought you someone with a Pip-Boy…" she protested weakly.

"I lied, obviously. I never had any intention of releasing her. It's hard enough getting new prisoners without letting them go. I mean,  _think_  about it Veronica. What would you do in my place?"

This was such an astounding question that she was left speechless. "But-" she began, then stopped, reeling inside.  _I thought you cared about me, at least a little_. His treachery should not have been surprising - he'd betrayed everybody else, after all - but it still was. "I don't even know what the hell you're doing, Elijah, and I don't care. If you don't let us go, I'm going to kill you when I find you. I promise. Old times be damned."

"All in good time," he said warmly. "And here's the last one now."

Veronica braced herself for a flurry of punches and kicks from an infuriated Megan - she wasn't worried, exactly, but she didn't relish having to hit back - but to her surprise the other woman focused her bleary anger on Elijah, ignoring Veronica altogether. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the drug, but she seemed a little slow on the uptake, not even noticing the collar until he pointed it out to her.

"What if I refuse? The exit's right there. I can be up and over that gate in a matter of minutes." When Elijah pointed out his failsafe, the surge of bravado seemed to drain out of her and she stepped back, tugging on the device and twisting it around with a nervous gesture. "Another collar? I don't need a collar. Seriously, can you just take it off? I'll be  _good_ , I mean I'll do what you want… ugh, this isn't necessary…"

"I've found it  _is_  necessary," Elijah replied primly. "The last and most successful group made it to the casino, but decided at the last minute that they'd rather kill each other for the treasure than finish the job in one piece."

"I'm not like that," she pleaded. "I don't care about whatever treasure you've got.  _I_   _can't wear this collar_."

"It's not that tight," Veronica pointed out, trying to keep her from damaging the connection with her frantic tugging. "It's not even that heavy. Tuck your jumpsuit under it and you won't even know it's there."

"Yeah, I will," she snarled back. "I've worn the low-tech version of one of these before. And you don't get to talk to me right now. Are you happy now? No?  _Good_."

They went through a few more iterations of this argument before Megan backed down, actually shaking with distress. She listened obediently to Elijah's instructions, asking a few terse questions for clarification, and then the hologram flickered away and they were alone.

After scooping up all of the chips from the dry basin - Elijah had informed them of the vending machines scattered throughout the city, for which these were the only currency - Megan stalked away from the fountain without a backwards look, still pulling viciously on the ring of metal around her neck. Veronica trailed uncertainly behind, clutching the holorifle and wondering what she would say if the other woman demanded it from her.

"Hey," she began. "Do you want-"

"Uh-uh." Megan was studying the Pip-Boy, pointing in one direction and mouthing instructions to herself. "Quiet."

"I think we should look-"

" _Nope_. 'We' aren't doing anything. I'm doing this my way. Why don't you go grab what you came for and see how far the two of you make it. Maybe if you ask really nicely, your  _mentor_  won't kill you."

Veronica ground her teeth together. "Believe me, I would if I could. I have a vested interest in keeping you alive; you have a reciprocal interest," she reminded her. "This is something we have to do together. It's too dangerous to do alone."

" _You_  are the reason I have a slave collar around my neck  _again_. You're also the reason I have a raging headache and none of my weapons. You're damned  _lucky_  I have a vested interest." Spotting something in an alcove ahead, she walked away to gather another handful of Sierra Madre chips. A weathered, headless corpse leaning against the wall, skin almost completely eaten away, yielded a small knife in a makeshift scabbard, which Megan attached to her belt-loop.

Veronica tried again. "Believe it or not, I  _am_  sorry. You have every right to be angry-"

She nodded emphatically, as if receiving a new revelation. "I do, don't I?"

"I never wanted to  _kill_  you." This wasn't entirely true. Veronica had considered killing Megan several times early on in her exile, fantasizing about buying her way back into the Brotherhood's good graces by bringing in proof of an Enclave scout's death. Various things had stayed her hand - the difficulty of actually carrying out the plan chief among them - and her anger had cooled somewhat since then.

Megan grimaced and shook her head. "Don't lie. You thought this place might kill  _her_."

Veronica deflated. It was true. "I preferred to hazard someone I felt indifferent about than to risk someone I used to  _love_. Can you say you wouldn't do the same?"

Megan paused for a moment in counting her chips. "You have a point… for instance, I'd throw  _you_  to the deathclaws in a hot second if it meant giving Arcade or Lily a better chance at survival. However, the  _way_  you went about it, Veronica… I mean, I fully expected that from the NCR. Colonel Moore all but promised me that she'd punish me for my help. But it hurt more coming from you."

Veronica was baffled. Fury, she had expected, and could have easily understood; what she didn't understand was how she still had the capacity to inflict hurt feelings on this person. It wasn't like they were  _friends_. She continued cautiously, "We would always have had to maintain the appearance of falling into Elijah's trap to get into the casino. Even if I had worked with you in good faith, we would probably had ended up exactly where we are now."

"Then you should have told me what to expect," said Megan softly. "I would have done it if you had asked. I'm stupid that way. People are always taking advantage of my generous good nature. You could have done the same. But I guess you did." She shook her head and fixed her eyes on a point on the dusty red skyline. "We can't stand out here indefinitely. This air is corrosive and, as he said, there are… Ghosts or something, somewhere out there. We're going to go find Collar 8 first. 'The FEV reject,'" she intoned, imitating Elijah's phrasing. "The police station may have guns - real guns, not that weird-ass toy he gave you - armor, and other supplies. Then we'll go after 14 and 12. In that order. Understand?"

"But-" Veronica didn't want to wait any longer. Christine had already been here for days, according to Elijah, and she might need  _help._

"I don't trust you to keep helping me once you achieve your goal, so we're collecting her last. If you have a problem with that, by all means, go your own way. I'm not stopping you. Try not to die, for all of our sakes." She made a shooing gesture and started walking toward the marker on her screen.

She didn't get far. Veronica saw the hooded figure in black loping awkwardly toward her from a passageway to her left and shouted a warning, bringing the heavy holorifle up to her shoulder. It  _was_  a peculiar weapon and poorly balanced, and took so much pull to shoot that her aim went wild, flying far over her target's shoulder and splashing against the wall in a shower of blue-white sparks.

"Try to actually  _hit_  it, okay?" Megan drew her knife from its impromptu sheath and gripped it warily, eying the creature. It had what looked to liked a modified bear trap clenched in one fist, its rusty iron teeth bent out like spikes. It was a clumsy, crude weapon that would nevertheless be effective when wielded with strength - any direct hit from that, and they wouldn't be getting up.

Veronica fired twice more, missing by a lesser margin each time. Her fourth hit scored a direct hit on its torso, but her celebration was short-lived. The Ghost person staggered, but wasn't downed, and continued lurching forward, swinging its jagged iron fist at Megan, who ducked with unexpected agility and reached in to stab with the razor-sharp blade, hitting little more than its clothing by the look. She backpedaled, fear in her voice now. "Shoot it again!"

Reloading the gun was a slow and laborious process. It could only take four shots at a time, and each cell had to be placed in individually, then slotted into place. She fumbled for her ammo, cursing Elijah under her breath, watching as Megan retreated from the creature, avoiding its jerky hits, but not succeeding in wounding it. She had no range with her little knife, and it had a good reach with its arms.

Veronica had just chambered the fourth and last cell, when heavy breathing from another passageway behind her signalled  _another_ Ghost, this one already lobbing  _something_  in her direction, trailing a burning fuse in its wake. She panicked, and swung the barrel of her gun like a baseball bat, knocking the missile astray, where it impacted the flagstones near the first Ghost's feet. It burst into liquid flames, which climbed the creatures legs and caused it to collapse, almost appearing to deflate, on the ground. Megan threw an arm over her face to shield it from the explosion and backed away from the fire, apparently unaware of the newcomer to her left, who already had another gas bomb in hand. Veronica was ready, however, and fired again, this time taking the head off cleanly at close range.

Breathing heavily, they both stared down at the body of the headless Ghost, which was giving off a green mist from the vents in its suit. Megan was rubbing her hand furiously on the fabric of her suit, frowning.

"Are you all right?" Veronica asked automatically.

"Just a fleck of burning gasoline. It's fine." She reached down and took the undetonated gas bomb from the dead monster's grip. "This could come in handy," she muttered. "Let's move on. Keep that thing fully loaded, won't you? Four lousy, fucking shots…" Trailing off, she chose a new direction, and kept walking, a little more warily this time.

Both of their collars began counting down almost immediately after they stepped into the police station. They'd met no more Ghosts, but the atmosphere and the cumulative stress of the day was enough that both of them immediately leapt back, pressing themselves into the door to get out of range. Even Veronica felt her heart rate increase at the sound, and  _she_  knew that the collars were inert. There were a  _lot_  of radios in this room. To relieve her stress, she shot one on a desk across the room, sending its components flying. Megan gave her a look, and calmly walked over and switched off the other two in plain sight, ignoring the brief resumption of the steady beeping. In a moment, all was silent.

"Save your ammo for the enemies." Unspoken was the subtext,  _you idiot_ , but it was there. Giving only a passing glance to the person - no, the mutant - in the holding cell, the two of them swept the station for additional dangers and resources. They found food, drugs, and alcohol in the closet beside the door, a high-quality pistol with several boxes of .357 shells in the front desk, and three more radios before they decided that the floor was secured. One of the bathrooms even had a working tap, though the water was a bit rusty and metallic-tasting, doubtless drawn from a reservoir on the roof above. They refreshed themselves from it, filling what vessels they could find, emptying wine bottles into the sink and restoppering them once full of water.

"I didn't see it on him, but the mutant is definitely our Collar 8," Megan said quietly, rummaging through the locker room for additional supplies. She'd found a set of body armor and was stepping into it. Even with the stiff, bulky canvas beneath, it fit easily as a second layer, having been designed for a rather larger person. "He may be a challenge. I'll take the lead in this conversation. I've got a few talking-points just for nightkin."

Veronica watched apprehensively as Megan knelt beside the cage, keeping well clear of the bars should the snivelling beast within make any attempt to grab her. The creature remained where it was, rocking in place, massive arms wrapped around a hideously scarred torso, some wounds fresh and raw, others ancient, its voice a constant, petulant whine.

"...make Dog hungry, make Dog hurt… the voice put Dog in a cage, then the voice went away… so  _hungry…_ " On and on it went in a similar vein, a litany of hunger, hate, and fear. Megan attempted to speak to it in a cajoling, friendly tone, but the creature gave no sign that it heard.

"It's a fucking  _nightkin_ ," Veronica pointed out impatiently, standing a little further back. "They're all crazy. This one is obviously hungry, but it would take more food than we could find to feed it..."

"That's an idea," Megan agreed, apparently not really listening. "Go get me a can of cram from the kitchen." Though she wasn't sure how six ounces of putrid meat-product was going to do anything to sate the monster's craving, Veronica obliged, wrinkling her nose in disgust as the other woman scraped the substance out of the can with grimy hands, forming it into a ball. She then pushed several mentats from a tin they'd found in the contraband closet into the middle of the sphere before covering up the holes. Standing, she spoke again, half to herself, sounding almost apologetic, "This won't do him much good, really. I wish I had some of Henry's antipsychotics with me. He'll be anxious and hyper-alert, and the come-down will throw him off-balance, but it may awaken the sleeping superego. I assume he  _has_  one." She leaned forward and lobbed the sloppy handful into the cage, where it plopped just in front of the huddled figure with an unappetizing squelching sound.

"Who's Henry?" Veronica asked, watching the monster for signs of interest. "And what do  _you_  know about nightkin?"

Silence. And then, a grudging answer. "He's a scientist working to find a cure for their schizophrenia. I'm close to one of his long-term patients. If there's an intelligent side to this one, then I'd prefer to speak to that personality. Unless this  _is_  the intelligent half…" she trailed off as the mutant took the bait, massive hand dwarfing the morsel, and swallowed it. "Good," she said, settling back to a comfortable position. "Let me do the talking. You don't respect mutants and it shows. This won't take long."

It didn't. In a matter of minutes, the creature's nervous movements slowed to a stop, and it looked up, shaking its head like a brahmin trying to rid itself of a irksome fly. It stood up, eyes gleaming with keen anger, and it approached the barrier with balled-up fists and a fierce glare.

"What have you done to me, humans?" it growled in a deep, slow voice very different from the cringing one it had used before.

Megan stayed where she was, while Veronica took a step backwards. She could feel the fury radiating off of it, and it awakened a primeval fear response in her, the desire to run away and hide in some dark corner. She supposed her prehistoric ancestors would have felt the same way when confronted with a wounded cave bear. She could hardly believe that this  _thing_  had once been human

"I gave you drugs," the self-appointed mutant-whisperer replied calmly. "A handful of mentats. I didn't think 'Dog' was your best foot forward. My name is Megan and this is Veronica. Who are you?"

"Not Dog," it growled. "Quite the opposite. I'm the voice of reason. I sleep sometimes... down in the basement, in the cage. Now that I'm awake, Dog goes back in the cage. Dog knows I'm here, but can't do anything about it. I'm his... conscience. Keep him tame, keep him from hurting us... doing foolish things."

"We all need a voice like that," said Megan, an understanding note in her voice. "What do you call yourself, then?"

"Isn't it obvious? Maybe not. I'm God. And I've had quite enough of humans playing games with my brain. Do you work for the Old Man?"

"Elijah? Hardly. We're his prisoners as well. Just like you."

His heavy features sneered his disgust. "Not like me. You're not prisoners. You're slaves to your own greed, like Dog. Though I'm not there when Dog… collects… them,  _I_  know where the Old Man gets his puppets. You stepped into one of his traps, searching for treasure."

"Not exactly," Megan glanced irritably at Veronica, who gulped, wondering if she was about to be lumped in with Elijah. "We're here on a errand of mercy," she continued, turning back to God and looking him straight in the eye. "The Old Man has enemies. One of them pursued him here to kill him and got herself trapped. We're here to rescue her. Nothing more. Any treasure-hunting is purely incidental. I have another mission that takes priority over anything I find here. I don't care for whatever he seeks here." She paused, then asked curiously, "Where is your collar? I can tell that's it's near..." She tapped the Pip-Boy, flashing the screen in his direction. "He gave me the means to track the others."

"It's  _very_  near. He thought it was food and swallowed it," he said shortly. "You put your own heads in the noose?" The mutant was incredulous. "I assumed that was Dog's work, though come to think of it, you don't look or smell like you've been here for very long. I've been in the… basement, so to speak, for what feels like days."

"Who put you in that cage, God?" Megan asked. Veronica thought she knew the answer, but didn't say anything. Dog…  _God_ … terrified her, and she didn't want to draw his attention to herself.

"Dog's pain and hunger chains me down… but you mean this one. I felt him gaining on me and locked  _him_  in here, human, and you should be grateful. If I had not, Dog would be feasting on your marrow already. I put him here partly to protect pitiful prey such as yourself, but mostly to draw out the Old Man."

"Well, thank you. Can we let you out now, though? Elijah has made an attempt on the casino a condition of our freedom, and he wants all of us to assemble at the fountain for the next stage of instructions."

"No, no, and no. We're too  _hungry_  - and the poison you've given me only makes it worse, speeds processes up - and I'm not leaving until I see the Old Man. He's the key to this cage. Tear him to pieces when he comes… snap his brittle bones, make him  _hurt_..."

"Is there a literal key to your cage, God?" Megan asked patiently, at the same time that Veronica spoke up, a little fearfully.

"I found some C4 in a locker back there. We... we could blast through if we needed to."

The creature ignored this suggestion. "Of course. It's tied around my neck - Dog is  _stupid_ , and would never think to look there - but I refuse to participate." He glared at Veronica. "If you  _do_  open my cage without my permission, human, then I will bite off your hands and feet and leave you to flounder in here until you die."

Megan shushed Veronica and said lightly, "Wait until the end of the world if you like, but he's not coming. He was trapped inside the casino on a previous attempt to break in. If you need proof, I can summon Elijah's recording on my Pip-Boy…"

The monster cringed, covering his ears with hands the size of frying pans. "No!" More quietly, he mumbled, "No. To Dog, he's another Master, and I can't compete with that call." He slumped in surrender. "Feed me, humans, as much as you can. Unless you really do want an unchained Dog… which, I assure you, you do not. Then I'll come out to you, dance on the strings with you, without trouble. For a time," he growled, his tone carrying a clear threat.

"Great!" Megan found an empty wastebasket and began to fill it with all of the food they'd gathered in the police station - canned goods, junk food, and other pre-war commestibles - and returning to the contraband closet to ferret out more. Alarmed, Veronica followed her, hoping that God's hearing had not kept pace with his strength.

" _We_  need that food, Megan," she pointed out, grabbing a pack of jerky off the top and stuffing it into her own bag. "We don't know how long we're going to be here."

"So grab one or two things for yourself," Megan told her irritably. "We won't starve in a day or two. We'll find more. God needs to eat, or Dog will eat  _us_  when we open the gate."

"He's a mutant," she pointed out, reasonably, she thought. "He can eat… literally anything. The ghost people. Corpses. Things that would make us sick."

"Half of  _this_  stuff would make me sick," she said mildly. "And  _Dog_  can eat anything, I don't doubt, especially if he swallowed one of these collars," she agreed, picking up a dusty bottle of bourbon and studying it for a moment before replacing it on the shelf. "God, I think, has a more discerning palate. Chill out, won't you? I'm taking responsibility for him. If you want to be useful, you can go fill a bucket of water for him."

God's voice was unequivocal as they returned to the lobby, food and drink in tow. "That's not enough, human. Not half enough."

Megan set the basket down beside the bars, backing away and nodding to God. "Then we'll find more as we go out to collect the others. Eat. Sleep. Meditate. Whatever keeps you sane. We'll be back. Maybe tonight, but likely tomorrow." She hesitated. "Can you… I mean… would you be willing to make do with less appetizing things? I would like to feed you well, if I could, but there just isn't much organic life here."

God grunted, reaching for a can of pork n' beans and squeezing it open with a mighty hand. "Dog lives on radroaches when there's nothing warm blooded and tasty to run down. I can do the same. No Ghost people, though. I am not that desperate yet. Try not to die, humans, though if you do... I'll  _briefly_  mourn your passing." A dark grin split his features and Veronica shivered.

They left the police station in silence, taking the back door because Megan said it was closer to the district where Collar 14 was waiting. Though the Courier had once complained of not having a good sense of direction, Veronica thought she had a better head for the confusing twists and samelike streets of the villa than she did. She ignored the signage altogether, of course, following the Pip-Boy's markers blindly, and Veronica followed, keeping an eye behind them for ambushing Ghosts.

"Why do you like mutants so much?" she asked suddenly. Even when they'd gone to Black Mountain together, Veronica had gotten the impression that the creatures fascinated and amused her companion, up to and including the ones that were threatening to eat them. This idiosyncrasy had seemed merely a quirk at the time, but now it struck her as strange and bizarre.

"As with most things I do and believe, my motivations are murky, even to me," she said, answering readily but sounding a little lost. "Do I like surrounding myself with crazy people because they make me feel sane by comparison? Maybe. Or do I feel a natural empathy for people who, like me, are at war with themselves? I don't know. Lily - she's the nightkin I know well - has always been very kind to me. She treats me like family. Sometimes I pretend she  _is_  my long-lost grandma, just like she thinks she is." Her voice had become thick with emotion, and she cleared her throat. "Or maybe, like I said, I just like to feel superior to someone else from time to time. That's probably it."

"God is dangerous," Veronica warned. "Don't mistake him for your friend."

"I know, Veronica. For your own part, I recommend that you treat him like you would a human being. He will - and probably already has - picked up on your slights. He's intelligent to begin with, and I just gave him a massive dose of mentats." She grinned humorlessly. "And here I thought the Brotherhood was supposed to be  _less_  racist than the Enclave. Just goes to show that stereotypes don't always tell the truth."

They encountered and killed only one more Ghost person on their way to the residential district, where Collar 14 was waiting for them. This one was armed with no weapon at all and didn't put up much of a fight. Nevertheless, Veronica put any entire clip into its face, not wanting to leave anything up to chance. She was beginning to be worried however, as her cells were running low and she'd spotted no compatible ammo at all in the police station. Twice, she spotted figures at a distance, moving in and out of the pockets of the cloud that they were studiously avoiding. When she pointed these out to Megan, Megan said she couldn't see them and didn't seem particularly concerned anyway. "We'll stay quiet. Accept the fight if it comes to us. We won't seek out conflict." She shook out her right arm. "I don't know about you, but I'm tired already. Been working on my knife-fighting lately, but I don't have the endurance to last. That last one took it out of me."

"Has Boone been helping you with that?" Veronica asked, trying to be polite.

Megan glared at her, and shook her head. "No, he's-..." She cleared her throat and continued.  
"No. I've been paying people down in the Thorn to spar me in friendly bouts. Being mostly chem-freaks, they sometimes get a little over-excited, but Lily's always standing by to break things up." She sighed. "I usually lose. You really should have… recruited someone else. And not just because I'm upset about being here. I'm not up to much fighting."

"What happened?"

"I got shot. Almost died. Still working on getting back into shape."

Veronica winced. "I saw that scar. You're lucky to be alive." This was the wrong thing to say, and she knew it when she saw Megan's look of disgust.

"Ugh." She hugged herself and turned away. "Don't remind me. Creeper. Anyway, I hope you'll be happy when we both die because you decided to bring a cripple along for the ride."

The location marker did not work well in three dimensions, as they discovered in the residential district. It took circling the large stack of condos three times, dipping in and out of the choking red cloud twice by accident, before they found their way to a set of stairs leading upward into the towering construction.

"I got to rest a second," Megan sank down on a step in the middle of the staircase, eyes red and streaming from the chemicals in the air, wheezing. "You know, the only reason I was… alone… in Westside this week was because I didn't want the exertion of a long-ass hike. Kind of wish I had just gone with Option A at this point. Lily could have carried me, we would have had a really nice time, the mountain air crisp and clear..."

Veronica felt a stab of guilt, but pushed it down. She pulled the other woman back to her feet roughly. "The air gets better the higher we go. We'll rest up there."

The air was a  _lot_  better in the interior stairwell, which was the only way up to the fifth floor, where they presumed their next target was located. Megan joked wearily about trying the elevator, but it was nothing more than an empty shaft, the carriage crumpled at the bottom. Four flights up shouldn't have been that hard for either of them, but the Cloud… it took it out of you. Veronica didn't know how Elijah or any of his human prisoners could tolerate it for long.

They stopped for an obligatory break on the last landing, eating the food that they hadn't given to the mutant and drinking half the water they'd brought. The light was dim here, with only a hint of the diffuse sunlight filtering through the red-dusted windows. At least Veronica hoped that was all it was, and not a sign that evening was approaching already. She wanted to be safe, together with Christine, in some fortified location by the time darkness fell. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask for the time - Megan was the one who had a watch, after all - but she restrained herself, noticing that the courier was half-asleep.

Veronica was tired, too. She'd been a fugitive for a week now, ever since she'd fled the Brotherhood compound with the stolen tech. Since then, she'd slept in the rough, with one eye open for trouble. She hadn't trusted Megan enough to accept her offer of a bed back in Westside, and had paid for her suspicion with an aching back and broken slumber from sleeping at the table. She was tired - hell she was exhausted - but at least  _she_  was in reasonably good health. And at least she had a reason for being here, unlike Megan, who apparently had… something else she needed to do. Veronica hadn't asked what it was. She didn't really want to know anything else about her victim's recent life. It would make it harder to feel justified about any of this.

"Come on," she said, shaking her awake after waiting another ten minutes and imagining that the stairwell was growing even darker. "We need to get going. What time is it, anyway?"

"About 4:30," Megan said, after studying her timepiece for a long beat. "Why did you let me fall asleep?"

She ignored this complaint and took the lead, keeping her hand on her gun, but not drawing it in case the sight caused Collar 14 to react violently. "I'll talk to this one," she said, not quite trusting the other woman to be diplomatic or coherent. "It's probably not a mutant. You can take a break."

"The Sierra Madre! Beautiful, isn't she?" A crooning, melodious voice welcomed them into the suite at the top of the stairs. Veronica could see only the back of a smooth, bald head framed against the light of the sky. One entire wall, along with most of the roof, had crumbled away with the passage of time, and was open to the sprawl of the lower buildings below and the walled casino above. The voice continued, "Have a seat and then we'll talk."

There was only one unoccupied chair, beside a tuxedo-clad ghoul, the unlikely source of the voice. With a jerky gesture, Veronica offered it to Megan, and sat on the end table to the ghoul's left instead, the ancient wood creaking under her weight.

"You don't sound like a ghoul," Veronica commented, admiring the view in front of them in spite of herself. The top of the casino at the center of the city rose above the thickest layer of the fog, and there it caught the late afternoon sunlight, its pinnacle gleaming gold. Before the War, before the Cloud, this place would certainly have been something to see. "You sound a little familiar, actually. Are you a singer?"

The grinning skull, leathery skin stretched tight over bone, clicked his teeth together with satisfaction, turning the double-barrelled glare of his sunglasses upon her. "Mademoiselle, you have the honor of meeting the one and only Dean Domino. It's nice to know that I haven't been altogether forgotten."

"No, I've seen your… er, face on posters." She blushed and added quickly, "My family had some of your music." Veronica wasn't beneath flattery, and she could tell the ghoul had pride to spare. "Of course I've heard of you. You were a world-famous star. How did you end up here, of all places?"

"I'm a performer. Events like the opening of Sinclair's little pet project were my bread and butter. A pity the world ended before the performance of my career." He turned impatiently to Megan, who seemed content to listen to this exchange rather than participate. "I don't know if you can talk, but if you can listen, know this: should you or the other one make a false move, that cushion you're sitting on is concealing a small, but powerful explosive. A bit of insurance."

"Hmm. Seems superfluous," Megan mumbled without much concern, back to messing with her collar, running her fingers along its edge. "You do know that our necklaces are linked, don't you? If I die, you die, we all die. The Old Man - Elijah, that is - says it's to give prisoners like you and me a reason not to kill each other. As if civilized people can't get along without mutually assured destruction..."

"Is this true?" The ghoul directed this question at Veronica, cutting Megan out of the conversation.

"Yes. It is," she said shortly. "He wants us to break into the casino for him, and this," she indicated her own collar, "is how he compels our cooperation."

The ghoul huffed something to himself that sounded like, "Tourists!" but didn't explain himself. Out loud, he continued, silky smooth voice concealing a dangerous edge. "Where does this Johnny-come-lately want us to go?"

"The fountain in the middle of the Villa."

"The one with the lovely lady?" He smacked his bloodless lips together with relish. "How very appropriate. Let's be off then." Reaching down, he yanked a wire loose from the undercarriage of the armchair. "No need for this. Do you two have names?"

They introduced themselves and all three of them stood awkwardly around for a moment, before Megan spoke, "We're actually not going straight there, I don't think…" she poked some buttons on her Pip-Boy, twisting it around to view the map from different angles. "We have to find our last collar first, then go back for the first. It might take a while."

"In the medical district, right?" Domino broke in swiftly. "The fountain's on the way. You can be my… shall we say, heavily-armed escorts. In return, I'll take you on a path that's mostly clear of Ghost people."

They had no choice but to accept his offer. Dean Domino may have been familiar with the Villa, but he was no more comfortable with it than they were, always looking behind him nervously and peering around every corner before he darted past. Veronica wondered why he had stayed in this place for two hundred years - sure, he had a collar  _now_ , but what had held him here before Dog and Elijah showed up? And how had he known their next destination?

Returning to the fountain took much less time than their previous trip had - he  _did_  know the layout, she admitted grudgingly - and there they parted with Dean. ("I'll be staying in one of these apartments over the square. Just go door-knocking if I don't come down automatically. Don't take forever either. I'm not getting any younger.")

The street to the clinic was a long and twisty one, and they spotted and tiptoed around a number of Ghost people, somehow avoiding a confrontation for the first ten minutes of walking. Their numbers alarmed Veronica greatly. What  _were_  they, exactly? Some kind of ghoul? Just outside the clinic, their luck ran out. As if they had been lying in wait for them, a pair of dark figures stepped out from the shadows, both armed with spears in  _lieu_  of bombs or bear-traps. They each fought one on their own, not knowing what the other was doing. Veronica could hear the firing of Megan's pistol in her ears, but couldn't spare the attention from her own target.

The holorifle made for a poor close-range weapon, and and an even worse club, but Veronica's Ghost eventually went down when she clubbed it repeatedly on the head to stagger it, then shot it at close range. The crack of the pistol had stopped as well, and she saw Megan bent double beside her own defeated Ghost, clutching her side.

Trying not to sound concerned, she called out bracingly, "Hey,  _you_  have armor on. Don't tell me you're hurt?"

"The stab was blunted, but it still hurts," she gasped. "This one's still alive. Yours?"

"What?"

"Is your Ghost still… breathing?"

" _Do_  they breathe-" Just then, her opponent started to climb back to its feet, and she clubbed it again out of reflex. Megan drew her knife and started sawing at its arm. The blade must have been very sharp indeed: fabric, sinews, and mottled bone parted easily. With its arm detached, the whole thing seemed to sag in on itself. She repeated the gesture on the other unconscious figure. They watched a minute longer, but neither Ghost moved again.

"Have to cripple their limbs, I guess," Megan muttered. "Blow 'em up, slice 'em, knock their heads off. Tough. Does Elijah intend to make an army of these things?"

"I don't know. I  _think_  he would find these things chaotic and distasteful, but..." she trailed off, and Megan seemed to read her line of thought.

"But you don't really know him at all, do you?" she asked grimly. "Christ, I think you might be a worse judge of character than I am… well, let's go see what your old squeeze thinks of all this. I'm not keeping my mouth shut to her, just so you know. She should know what you did to rescue her."

She pushed her way through the double-doors, and Veronica followed immediately behind, fear and shame gripping her at the threat ringing in her ears. There was a terminal, and she used it to redirect the holographic security to the second floor before turning on Megan with a fierce whisper. "If you tell her what I did, then  _I'll_ tell her you're Enclave."

She put her hands to the sides of her head in a parody of horror. "Oh no,  _scary_. Whatever will I  _do_?" Scoffing, she met Veronica's eyes defiantly. "What do I care about that? I tell almost everybody I know, sooner or later. You have nothing to hold over me."

Veronica blinked. For some reason, she hadn't expected Megan to be quite this dense, even though she had ample evidence of it already. "Do you even know what the Circle of Steel is?"

"Is that what you call your secret club? Do you have matching decoder rings?" She stalked over to the first aid kit and pilfered it what little it contained, tucking it into her pocket. "In case it isn't clear, I don't care what either you or she thinks of me." She paused, arms crossed in front of her. "Well, aren't you going to lead the way? Be the first thing she sees? I love heartwarming scenes like this."

Though she wasn't happy about turning her back on a newly infuriated Courier, her eagerness pushed her to take the lead. Even with her goal in arm's length, she wouldn't let it make her foolhardy. She kept to the shadows, slipping from doorway to doorway, visually clearing each room before moving on, not willing to leave additional enemies at the rear.

"She's less than twenty meters away," Megan announced from a few feet behind her, face illuminated a peculiar green from the glow of the Pip-Boy. "I can't pinpoint her location exactly. Too much interference from something. One of the rooms off this main hallway, perhaps?"

Between the time the surface under her feet started cracking and the moment her body impacted the floor, Veronica had time only to think,  _Now, that's some shoddy construction_ , before she was flat on her back in the dark, looking up at the ragged circle in the ceiling above. The fall had knocked the wind out of her and the dust kicked up by the collapse was getting into her eyes and mouth as splinters from the rotten floor dug into her exposed skin. She didn't think she was injured, though. After all, the floor beneath her was soft and earthy.  _And no wonder_ , she thought as she fumbled at it with one hand - there was a thick, black layer of what could only be insect excrement carpeting the area where she'd fallen, at least three inches deep. The smell was atrocious and made it even harder for her to refill her lungs.

She wasn't alone down there. The occupants of the cellar, initially startled by the noise and the brightness, now encroached upon the puddle of light. She tried to sit up, to get out of the reach of the radroaches' mandibles, but found her limbs unresponsive, her legs pinned painlessly under a large piece of plaster. There was a high pitched tone ringing in her ears and it took her a second to realize that it wasn't coming from inside her head, but from the collar around her neck, a high-pitched beep that was getting faster and faster.

"Veronica, get up!" Megan was animated with fear, trying to lower a spar of wood from the hole for her to reach. "Hurry!"

Veronica had relinquished any claim she had on "calm" at the moment she spotted the boldest of the radroaches - this one the size of a half-grown dog - mere inches from her hand. She was so tired she couldn't  _think_ , and terror got the better of her. Between the noise, the smell, and the cumulative trials of the past day, she forgot everything she knew - about her collar, about radroaches in general, and about the gun on her back, and started to scream. In her mind, they were already chewing on her fingers, lips, and eyelids - or whatever was left after her head exploded. She covered her face with a forearm and curled away from the creature, expecting it to begin feasting at any moment.

Instead of the pain she expected, there was a thud, a horrid crunching noise, and a splatter of burning liquid that splashed across her wrist. Another, slower beep joined the cacophony. Rubbing her arm frantically on the fabric of her jumpsuit to remove the vile substance, she opened her eyes. Megan had jumped down from the floor above, crushing the monstrous insect, and was now struggling to lift the chunk of the ceiling that was pinning her down.

"C'mon, Veronica, help me out," she moaned. "Get up, we've got to get out of here. Where is it…" By now, the noise coming from Veronica's collar was more of a drone than a series of individuated tones, and even as the other woman spoke it stuttered to a halt, ignition sparking an explosion that would never come. After a pause, the useless countdown began again, still subject to the radio's signal. In another ten seconds, Megan's did exactly the same thing.

"Right. Huh, that's interesting," said Megan, touching her own head shakily, as if she expected to find it missing. She straightened painfully and drew the police revolver, looking down on Veronica where she lay immobile and stunned, an unreadable expression on her face. "Sit tight. I'm going to take care of the rest of these radroaches and find this fucking radio. Then you and I are going to have a talk."


	4. A Merry Band of Misfits

Arcade had listened patiently to Megan's version of events up to this point. She had somehow made imprisonment and constant peril sound like an exciting adventure; he didn't think she was  _lying_ , exactly, but hers was certainly a selective retelling. He made a mental note to ask for Veronica's side of the story at some point. Following her account of the incident in the clinic, he interrupted for the first time. "Wait, wait, wait… so  _neither_  collar was rigged to explode?"

Megan smiled and nodded. "That's right. She'd taken out both charges before putting them on our necks. She'd neglected to tell  _me_  about it, but I suppose she saw my ignorance as insurance against me shooting her. She  _really_  doesn't know me," she added, a little sadly.

Sometimes, Arcade wasn't sure if he did either, not completely, but he didn't say so. "What happened next?"

"I killed the radroaches, obviously," she said simply. "Don't you have work to do today? I can pick this up later."

It was just the two of them at the breakfast table at this point. Judah and Daisy had lost interest some time ago and ambled off to their daily tasks, but not before the old man had reiterated his warning ("I'm telling you, Martin, that scribe needs to be gone before I get back.").

Arcade stretched lazily. He enjoyed a much more laid-back schedule in Westside than he had at the Old Mormon Fort. "Never mind that, carry on. When are you going to get to the other souvenirs in that bag of yours?"

"Eventually. Shall I continue?"

He became serious. "First, let me ask you a question: why are you telling the story like this?"

"Like what?" She  _sounded_  innocent, but he suspected she knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Like the whole trip was some happy lark, and not a nightmarish assault on your well-being and sanity."

A shield went up in her eyes, walling him out. "Who's to say it wasn't?" she asked flatly. "You weren't there. I'm not being deliberately deceptive, Arcade, I'm just glossing over the things I prefer not to remember in lurid detail. I'm telling the version of this story that I feel comfortable sharing."

"So… let me guess at what happens next in  _your story_ : you and Veronica hugged it out and climbed out of that hole, and she enjoyed a happy and uncomplicated reunion with Christine."

She grinned widely at this, but the warmth didn't reach her eyes. "Pretty much. I guess I can skip most of that part, then."

* * *

_Back in the basement..._

"Sit tight. I'm going to take care of the rest of these radroaches and go turn off that fucking radio. Then you and I are going to have a talk." She tried to sound cold and threatening, but inside she was all shock and joyful exuberance.  _I'm alive! Goddammit, I'm alive! But how?_  Relief soon made way for anger and suspicion, however. Her collar had not detonated at the end of the countdown. Either Elijah was lying, or Veronica was. Possibly both of them. Well, she'd learn the truth soon.

Megan turned away from Veronica, who said nothing, but only lay there, white-faced and stunned, still trapped by the debris from the collapsed ceiling. A sharp pain in her right ankle made her wince - she'd turned it somehow when she'd jumped, and it threatened to fold on her as she limped a protective circle around the downed scribe, taking out the predatory insects with her pistol. At such close range, even she could hardly miss. Six shots, six kills, and she had to reload to finish off the remaining two. Radroaches were more scavengers than anything, dangerous only to the weak or wounded.

Using the light from her Pip-Boy to navigate, she found what she was looking for on a desk beside an active terminal. Ignoring the meaningless lines of code on the dark screen, she vented her feelings by putting a bullet into the radio, silencing the drone of static as well as the incessant beeping on her collar. Concealed by the dark in the farthest corner of the basement, Veronica's collar fell silent as well. Not wanting to confront her just yet, Megan sank into the swivelling chair next to the desk and pulled out a bottle of the wine-flavored water scavenged from the police station and drank it slowly, trying to decide how best to move forward.

Out of force of habit, she checked the drawers in the desk in front of her for valuables. There was some rock-hard chewing gum, a half-packet of ancient cigarettes, a police baton, a flashlight with a dead battery, and a stealth boy. She took only this last item, tucking it into her bag next to the now-empty bottle. She might just want to disappear for a while at some point.

With the adrenaline ebbing away, she could feel every ache and injury of the past few hours. Her side, where the Ghost had struck her armor with its spear, was all one massive bruise. The splatter of tiny burns from the gas bomb, mere pinpricks when they happened, now hurt in earnest, stinging her face and hands. Worst of all was the old, familiar ache under her sternum, now set on fire from all of the running, fighting, and jumping. It had now been almost six months since she'd been shot, but her body wasn't about to let her forget about it.

"I could use a break. Some medicine, maybe," she remarked out loud to no one. What she really wanted, in this dark prison surrounded by enemies, was Arcade. He would understand this place better, explain it to her. Fix her hurts. Tell her what to do next, or at least make dependable suggestions. But Arcade was over a hundred miles away, and by the time he realized that she'd gone, even presuming that he could track her, she'd be dead unless she acted decisively. "Alright," she told her absent friend, "I'll figure it out myself. Maybe I'll even let the bitch live. You'd prefer that, wouldn't you?"

Pulling herself painfully to her feet, and dragging the chair behind her, Megan slowly made her way back to the woman who'd betrayed her and brought her to this horrible place. What she did next would depend entirely upon what Veronica had to say.

"I haven't killed a human being for a long time," she remarked aloud by way of an opening, not looking at Veronica at all, half-talking to herself. "Not for months. Not since I wreaked havoc on Lanius' men, actually. I don't seek out deadly violence anymore. Don't use feel-good or empowering drugs. I was sort of feeling virtuous, for the first time in a long time. Since I lost my soul at Cottonwood." Veronica stared at her, terror plain on her face. It made Megan's gut clench with disgust at herself, but she continued her speech resolutely. "If these collars don't work, though, then it's time to reevaluate what I will and won't do to survive."

"Please don't kill me," Veronica whispered, her first audible words since she'd fallen. "Not yet. I don't want  _her_  to die."

Ignoring this - she knew already that she wasn't going to kill Veronica, although she might well leave the woman to her own devices - she asked the obvious question, "Do you know why the collars didn't go off?"

Veronica tried to sit up, but gave up after a few seconds. "Elijah told me how to remove the explosive charge from my collar before it was activated. He didn't know that I did the same to yours. He probably does now, though," she added with a shiver. "He can hear everything we say."

"I assume you did it to give your girlfriend a better chance at survival? She'd have died just now if my collar blew."

"Maybe. I don't know. You can think whatever you want. The short answer is that I felt bad about what I was doing. It's one thing to imprison someone. It's another to strap a bomb to them. I couldn't do it." She closed her eyes and tried one more time to free herself, but to no avail.

"A few more questions, and I'll think about helping you out. Are you hurt?" she asked with ersatz solicitousness. Megan genuinely hoped the answer was "no." She may have felt somewhat morally ambivalent at the moment, but, like Veronica, she also had some lines she wasn't prepared to cross. Leaving an injured person alone in a dark cellar was one of them.

"I don't think so, but I don't know. My legs have gone numb."

"Can I trust you not to murder me as soon as it's expedient to do so?" Bluntness was one of Megan's dubious gifts, and she didn't feel like beating around the bush with this subject.

Shame and anger crossed Veronica's dusty face. " _Yes_. Of course. I don't want to see you again, but I don't need to kill you either."

"Of course you  _would_  say that," Megan replied, trying to quash her more credulous side for her own sake. "Explain your answer. Why not?"

Veronica's rush of words was not what one would expect from someone in her position. Probably they were a long time in coming. "You're criminally stupid. Clumsy with other peoples' lives. Cavalier about things you should have the decency to be properly ashamed of. But you aren't  _evil_. Someone will put you down eventually. But it's not going to be me."

"Those are hard words coming from someone I have at my mercy. I think you need to review the manual on not antagonizing your captor. But alright. Will you kill Elijah when you find him? Or stand in my way if  _I_ try to kill him?" Megan had already decided that she preferred to be the one to take the shot, but she wanted to test Veronica's honesty.

"I… I… I don't know. He was practically  _family_ to me once. I couldn't kill him. I'm not sure if I could stand by while you did."

"He's  _dangerous_ , Veronica. Your own people have a bounty on him, and for good reason."

A tired sigh. "I just don't know."

"Fine. Whatever. Why didn't you and Christine make it before? How long has it been since you've seen her, anyway?" She was curious about the person that Veronica had proven herself capable of upending both their lives to save.

Veronica sighed. "Six years without a word. The Brotherhood doesn't condone same-sex relationships for practical reasons. 'All couplings should have offspring as a goal,' yada yada. I was ready to leave over that, but she wasn't. Her career mattered a little more than I did, I guess. Father Elijah - and the other leadership - made the separation formal by reassigning her to a different chapter."

"I'm sorry." Megan was surprised to find that she actually meant it. But, from the look on her face, Veronica wasn't buying it.

"What do you care?"

"I don't like to see people made miserable for no reason. I've been unhappy in love, but I don't want anybody else to be."

"Oh? Did Boone finally tell you where to get off?" Megan flinched. The scribe could be nasty when she was backed into a corner.

"No. He died." She stood up, weary of this conversation, and ready to give up the pretense of threats. "Here, let's get you up." Between the two of them, they shifted the material pinning Veronica to the floor and Megan waited as she checked herself for injury. "You good? Let's go find Christine."

Before they climbed the stairs to force their way out of the basement, Veronica used the terminal to shut down the auxiliary power feeding the speakers and the holographic security program for the entire building. Their collars might be harmless, but the beeping was annoying.

They found the source of Collar 12's signal coming from an Auto-Doc in the fifth room on the left past the new hole in the floor. A green light at the top indicated its occupancy, and Megan wondered uneasily how long the other prisoner had been in there. Megan watched from the door as Veronica pressed a button releasing the hatch, which slid open to reveal a battered, bald woman wearing a jumpsuit and a collar exactly like theirs. She didn't seem to know where she was or who was talking to her - she said nothing at all to the joyous greeting - though Veronica either didn't care or didn't notice, but led her from the room, speaking excitedly all the while.

Megan picked up Veronica's abandoned bag and followed them across the hall into a different exam room, one that was relatively clean and spacious - and, significantly for the traumatized woman - lacked the Auto-Doc that was the centerpiece of every other room on this hall. She hung back awkwardly as Veronica fussed over the still-silent woman's bruises and abrasions, then decided she didn't need to be here for this reunion at all.

"I'm going to search the rest of this clinic and see if there's any food or medicine." They both ignored her and she took that as her cue to depart. Before leaving, she pulled out everything she'd found in the first aid box in the foyer - a small bottle of rubbing alcohol, a wad of gauze, and a package of bandaids, for all the good that  _those_  would do here. She tapped Veronica on the shoulder and handed these wordlessly over, before wandering off in search of something more substantial. This was a  _clinic_ , after all. They  _had_  to have the good stuff.

Not wanting to repeat Veronica's misstep, she kept to the edges of the hallway, trying to step lightly. This wasn't easy to do - her ankle hurt abominably and felt swollen and tight inside her boot, despite the fact that the boot itself was a half-size too large. Although the obvious dangers had been dismantled, Megan was inclined to be wary. There could be more radroaches, after all, even if security had heretofore kept them quarantined to the basement.

The first floor was disappointing. There was nothing but useless terminals, filing cabinets, and defunct Auto-Docs. She ignored the files and folders, but stood looking at one of the machines for a long time, wondering if there were drugs to be found  _inside_  the thing. She decided to wait until she had some tools to make the attempt. The most she would accomplish at the moment would be to dent the damn thing, and possibly destroy whatever delicate components it held.

She moved to the second floor, testing each stair-step carefully with her good foot before using the bannister to pull herself up.  _Ah yes_ , she thought with satisfaction,  _this is pay-dirt_.  _Auto-Docs are well enough for the miscellaneous complaints of the_ hoi polloi _, but the rich would have wanted a specialist_ in situm _._ She found what she thought was an orthopedist's office, with a model of a human knee on the desk, and the dusty remains of physical therapy equipment taking up half the room. In the drawer on the yellowed plastic shelving, she found three stimpaks and a variety of compression bandages. There was no food or drink, however, except for the mummified remains of what might once have been an apple.

Half a stimpak went to her ribs, and half to her ankle. They worked better when one was well-fed - the body had to pull the raw materials for regrowth from  _somewhere_  - and it occurred to her that she was very hungry. The snacks at Dean Domino's apartment had only whetted her appetite, and breakfast on the landspeeder had been a long time ago. Veronica had provided some unappetizing-looking rations and she had forced herself to eat one, despite its resemblance in taste and texture to sawdust. As if thinking about food had awakened it, her stomach growled, and she limped on to the next room with fresh purpose.

Whoever's office  _this_  was, once upon a time, had been accustomed to surrounding themselves with luxury. Plush carpet, now thick with dust, imposing furniture upholstered in leather, and a marble placard bearing its owner's name spoke to someone who liked to look and feel important.

"Let's hope you were as big as your chair," she muttered, taking a seat behind the grand desk and rifling through the drawers. " _Nice_." A large can of mixed nuts, still vacuum-sealed for freshness, a wide assortment of chocolate bars, and an untouched bottle of what she might have called "the good stuff" if she'd known anything about quality bourbon.

She carried these items over to the long, low couch and propped her foot up on a stack of ancient pillows before diving in. The nuts still tasted good, the chocolate not so much, but she didn't care. This was a feast. Using the tip of her knife, she worked through the wax seal on the liquor and tried a sip. Not bad, a little weak maybe - at any rate, it tasted less like poison than the home-distilled stuff she was used to. "It has calories in it," she explained defensively to no one. "Plus, I'm on vacation."

An uncertain amount of time later, she'd absently eaten half the nuts, giving up on the chocolate bars after choking down just one that tasted like compacted dust and cinders. A substantial quantity of the bourbon had disappeared as well, giving her a warm, filling sense of well-being. Even the hateful collar was forgotten and the anticipated difficulties with the women downstairs temporarily handwaved away. Wrapped in safe comfort, all was possible, and success even seemed likely. She could think  _big_  again, not sweating the little details of how, why, and when.

_Go to Divide. Deal with Ulysses. Go East. Find home._  In her mind, she had already left her fear and guilt behind with Ulysses' body, along with any lingering curiosity about that nebulous time between leaving her vault, years ago, and waking up in Goodsprings. Ulysses hadn't hesitated to kill to gain an audience; she was fully prepared to kill him just to shut him up and blot out his truth. To the best of her knowledge, he was the last living puzzle piece to the person she had been before. After that, she'd be free to put the confusing, hurtful memories of her life in Vegas behind her.

She wondered, then, just how big of a footnote she'd get if and when someone wrote up the history of the Legion War, and if she'd ever live to hear the NCR's version of her story.  _Prob'ly either forget me or make me into someone I'm not_ , she decided.  _And that's okay. It's not like I was ever going to be another Vault Dweller or Chosen One._  She'd heard the history of those men - from Doc Mitchell in the beginning, and from Arcade in more detail later on, and privately doubted that anybody could be  _that_  great or  _that_  good. Not if they had actually done what they were said to have done. Somewhere, not recorded in the official biographies, there were dark deals, costly mistakes, and personal failures. There had to be.

After a long time - hours, she thought - of slow drinking, daydreaming, and intermittent napping, she stood up with only a slight roll to her gait. There were several more offices on this floor, but she resolved to search just one more before returning to the others. This area  _seemed_  safe enough, but she didn't want to spend the night alone, just in case there were hidden dangers in the walls.

There was no food in the next room, and it had a far more sterile feel to it than the other one. She couldn't tell what this doctor's specialty had been, but he certainly had powerful drugs, as she discovered when she broke the lock on his desk and examined the drawers.

"Wow. Your patients must have been pretty happy. Or not…" She found herself staring at a  _fortune_  in med-x. She counted three dozen syringes, laid neatly in three layers of foam packing, side-by-side, with gaps where others had lain. There were also some alarmingly large stimpaks in the back of the drawer that looked as though they might cause some damage all by themselves. She added these to the top of her bag, but didn't close up the case, still contemplating the drugs. "My ankle does kind of hurt." It didn't really, not when she was sitting down, and especially not with the alcohol dampening everything down. But it wasn't like she had anybody to convince except herself.

_One hit won't kill me. I deserve a break. No one will know. We're not going anywhere else tonight._

She sat there for a long time, holding the slender instrument, even uncapping it once and tracing her veins, looking for a good spot in between the old puncture scars. An image came unbidden to her mind then - a hungry, lonely monster howling in a cage - and she replaced the cover with shaking hands. "You're no better than Dog," she told herself, full of disgust and disappointment. She replaced the needle in the box and shut it tight. It joined the other things in her bag.  _You can't throw that shit away_ , she reasoned to herself.  _Somewhere there are people getting bullets dug out and legs cut off with nothing to make it easier. I'll get it to them._ And so she carried her temptation away with her.

* * *

"You were gone a long time. Didn't you search this floor at  _all_? The lounge down the hall had a vend-o-matic with a ton of snacks in it." Some of Veronica's happiness had fled, and she was worried again, the lines of her face drawn tight.

"Hello to you, too. I found nuts, stimpaks,  _super-_ stimpaks, and bourbon. Also enough med-x to kill us all. Help yourself. How are  _you_  doing?" She addressed this last to Christine, who was watching her warily from where she sat on the floor, half-reclined against the wall.

The scarred woman only nodded, eyes flicking to Veronica in answer.

"She can't speak," explained the scribe. "The Auto-Doc removed her vocal chords. How she got  _in_  there, I still don't know. They don't even work. It only had the one, mutilating surgery programmed."

"Weird. So, are you two passing notes back and forth, or what?" This got an impatient head shake and another non-verbal request for interpretation. Veronica obliged.

"She can't read or write, either. That's not from the Auto-Doc... It's from… somewhere else. I haven't figured it out yet."

"Hm." Megan studied the scars carving up the smooth skin on Christine's skull. She had taken them for an accident, but up close she could see their deliberate nature. "Brain damage is a bitch, ain't it? I'm illiterate too. I got shot here, see? But it looks like something a lot more precise happened to you."

Christine nodded, opened her mouth, and then slumped back, frustrated.

Megan set her pack and weapons down and sat near, but not too near, the stranger. She was still feeling a good buzz from the alcohol, and total frankness seemed like the best policy at the moment. She began, "I don't know what Veronica told you about me…"

"Nothing. I said nothing," Veronica interjected, a panicky note in her voice.

"...but I don't want there to be any misunderstandings between us. I also don't want to be led around by the nose anymore. Know this: I've had problems with the Brotherhood of Steel. That doesn't mean I'm automatically your enemy, but I'm not your friend either. I'm just a former courier with a disproportionate amount of influence on history." She paused to study Christine's reaction. A flicker of surprise, and mild interest, but nothing else. "Also, just so you know, your girl here sold me to Elijah for the chance to rescue you. A real romantic gesture, don't you think?"

Not waiting for a response, Megan turned away. Nerves feeling worked up again, she eyed the remaining bourbon, feeling that she deserved a reward for not being high for this. She pulled her gaze away to find Veronica staring at her. "What?"

"Is this funny to you?"

"Do you see me laughing?" She stood up, and cleaned the inside of a dusty old coffee cup with her sleeve before filling it with the amber-colored liquid. "Neither of you can kill me. You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you. I don't care if you want to clear the air with some honesty." She handed the bottle over. "Have a drink, Veronica. It'll be just like that night we spent at the Wrangler, about a million years ago. Except nothing like that at all."

To her surprise, the scribe accepted, although Christine did not. Laying back on sheets plundered from the exam rooms, Megan examined the ceiling, which was spinning slightly now. She could hear Veronica talking to Christine, and supposed that Christine was answering in her own way, but she tuned this out, thinking instead about how nice it was not to feel much of anything.

Just as she was drifting off, a harsh whisper woke her from her light slumber. "She's not fit to travel yet. We need to wait a day. Give her a chance to get back on her feet."

"Okay. I'll go take care of God tomorrow while y'all stay here. Wouldn't want to be a third wheel."  _Go away now_ , she willed the other woman. She didn't want to hear her talk anymore today.

Veronica was quiet for a long time, but Megan could tell she hadn't gone back to her pallet yet. Could hear her exhale, smell the booze on her breath. Sensed her sitting up in the blackness.

Veronica finally moved away, but not before she muttered something that sounded like, "I'm sorry."

* * *

The next morning, she excused herself early and made her way to see to God, a large sack of dead insects over her shoulder. The nightkin appeared to be asleep as she softly closed the door of the police station behind her, and padded quietly into the room, limping only slightly. The stimpak had done its work on her ankle, and most of the swelling was gone. She checked the reserves on the stealth boy - about 60% of the power remained. She'd save it for an emergency. With God's help, she should be able to get back to the clinic without too much risk. In her current mood - slightly hungover and more than a little worked up with anxiety - this thought struck her as funny. "I'm not even religious."

She slid the radroaches through the bars, one by one, disliking the feel of the carapaces under her fingers as they compressed to squeak through. Noticing that the water bucket was empty, she went to refill it as well as her own water bottles from the one, working tap She was a long time in the bathroom, undressing and using a generous amount of the reservoir's stores to bathe herself. Walking back, feeling much refreshed, she could hear crunching sounds coming from the cage.

"Good morning, God..." She trailed off. The creature hunched over, holding the largest of the roaches between two hands, was  _not_  God. There was no fierce intelligence in the eyes under the protruding brow, no self-awareness in his posture or manners. "Hello, Dog."

"Dog  _hungry_ ," the beast moaned, stuffing his maw with the insect. "Master send food?"

"Not a Master, Dog. A friend. I wanted to help you. I brought medical supplies to treat your injuries. I'd like to get that trap off of your arm, if you let me."

" _No_. Trap keeps the mean one away." Dog's tone, slightly higher than God's, was thick with dread. "Reminds me, keeps the voice out of my head. He can't talk when the pain's howling at me." He swallowed the last of the roaches after squeezing the entire thing into a ball and into his mouth. "Dog still hungry. You smell like food."

"I'm not food, Dog. I told you, I'm a friend." Megan knew she would do better to attempt to browbeat Dog into submission - power and threats would work better than kindness with this one - but she couldn't quite make herself do it. "If I let you out, will you work with me to find more food… instead of eating me?"

Dog let out a pitiful whine that Megan interpreted as,  _I'm making no promises_. She made her decision accordingly. "Stay there, Dog. Drink your water. I'm going out to find more food for you."

The light outside, while not the bright morning sunshine she would have expected anywhere else, was at least incrementally better than it had been in the late afternoon of the previous day. She had encountered no Ghosts on the way to the police station, making her feel like she had burned through the stealth boy for nothing. Now she ventured out uncloaked, armed with the police pistol, the knife, and her only gas-bomb. She hoped the flint and steel ignition on the top of the device worked, because she didn't know how to test it ahead of time.

The Ghosts were in hiding from the light, perhaps, or resting from a long night of skulking around. She was forced to wander further from the police station than she wanted, and even caught a glimpse of the hologram over the fountain between two buildings. She avoided setting foot in the plaza, not wanting to give a false signal to the ghoul, and took a different route, one that took her into a shadowy courtyard with only two exits - the one she'd come in by and a broken gate through which she could see only the concentrated Cloud.

Megan was about to turn and leave, when she spotted some boxes stacked in the corner nearest the creeping red mist. Breathing through her sleeve, and squinting through streaming eyes, she rifled through them, with disappointing results: some ammo, none of it matching their team's various weapons, several batteries bearing a thick, red crust of corrosion on the bottom of the casings, and a large spool of wire. Finding a place to stash the wire took several seconds, and her lack of attention almost cost her dearly. Only a half step to the left to settle her load, while also favoring her right foot, saved her life, as a spear struck the wall where she had stood only moments before.

She made a half-hearted grab for the bomb on her belt, but her nerves failed her then and she acted without thinking, plunging into the Cloud-masked passageway in an instinctive effort to get away from the three Ghosts that had gotten the drop on her. This turned out to be such a bad move that she would have turned back immediately if it hadn't been for the three pairs of glowing eyes behind her, their heavy, filtered breathing hot on her heels.

Weapons forgotten, her only thought had been to get away from the death behind her, but now the air itself was killing her, filling her lungs with unbreathable toxins, and eating away at her strength. She ran - or tried to - but hit the wall and fell when the passageway curved suddenly, scrambling desperately back to her feet. She'd narrowed her eyes to slits, trying to protect them from the burning fumes, and could see nothing but various hues of red. She tried to follow the light, seeking an opening at the end of the tunnel. Somewhere it had to end.

Deprived of oxygen, her legs felt boneless and weak, and she wasn't able to run anymore, but could manage only a staggering lumber. A heavy blow caught her between the shoulder blades, and she was down again, this time for good, and strange hands were pawing over her. She lost a quick tugging match for her only effective weapon - not that she'd have a chance to throw the bomb - and red faded to black as it dragged her away, deeper into the Cloud. Her last conscious impression was of a dull and distant thud, as of a far away explosion.

* * *

She couldn't see, couldn't breathe without coughing, and when the dragging hands dropped her, she had no choice but to stay where she was, lacking the motivation even to open her eyes. Wherever she was, it was inside, the floor smooth and cool under her nerveless limbs. She was lying face-down, drooling uncontrollably, and her skin was being eaten up by a thousand tiny ants - they'd even crawled up under her armor. For a long, long time, she was insensate and immobile, not caring for anything except for regaining control of her body's basic processes.

Finally, she was able to roll over, and look up. The ceiling seemed familiar, but her vision was worse than usual and she couldn't be sure of anything. She wanted water, but couldn't even lift a hand to the familiar bag that lay nearby.

"I never tire of watching humans absorb their first heavy dose of the Cloud - those that survive it, at any rate. They say it's like nothing else they've ever experienced. I wouldn't know. It doesn't affect me much." A drawling voice to her left encouraged her to turn her head incrementally, taking in the shiny black shoes, tuxedo, and shades of Dean Domino.

"You…" She got out a single word before she vomited what little she had eaten for breakfast - a bag of chips and a handful of nuts - making the ghoul step back hastily from the spreading puddle.

"Yes,  _me_. Let's keep the talking to a minimum,  _hm_? At least until you've finished with the oozing and the leaking and the spluttering. It's all very distasteful."

From somewhere behind the disdainful figure, she heard confirmation that they were back in the police station: the renewed shouting of the pitiful nightkin ("Dog hungry NOW!"). She swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth and licked her lips, trying to compose herself for a question.

"Are… are… the Ghosts… dead?"

"The ones that were after you are. Their own bombs work marvelously well against them."

She tried to sit up, but a new bloom of agony knocked her back, breath whistling between her teeth. "Need to get the bodies. Feed the mutant."

"That's why you risked  _my_  life back there? To feed this pathetic monstrosity?"

"Necessary." Megan tried again to reach for her bag and succeeded only in pulling it an inch closer. "Medicine. Bag." In addition to some basic first aid supplies, there was a super-stimpak, a regular stimpak, and several syringes of med-x, intended to make repairing God's wounds easier.

Domino didn't wait for specific instructions, but shot her up with the painkiller and strapped the super-stimpak - with its large-gauge needle - to her other arm, leaving it there. "There'll be no intelligent conversation coming from  _you_  for a while. Have fun, junkie."

She didn't. It was, as they say, a bad trip, almost as bad as her journey through the Cloud. The worst of the pain was suppressed, but the powerful chems in her blood warred against her senses, drowning out her sense of place and orientation. The dirty floor where she sweated and twitched was the bottom of a giant hole that threatened to engulf her, to send her plunging down into oblivion.

For once, her feverish dreams didn't take concrete shape, but squeezed her nonetheless with their emotional intensity, leaving her wrung out and sobbing. She surfaced at one point to find herself calling for her mother to help her, to bring her a glass of water, and then plunged back under into murkier depths, where the current eroded the last of her consciousness and identity.

Words in her head came like a distress beacon in the darkness.  _I don't feel good_. This was a coherent thought. And she wasn't a tortured, disembodied consciousness anymore. Promising. She tried the words out loud, but found her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, dry and sandy as the desert.

Her arm hurt as she rolled over, and she pulled the empty stimpak free with a clumsy hand, nausea gripping her empty stomach as the puncture began to bleed. She found her water, but struggled with the shrivelled cork, hands shaking so badly that she spilled half of it before she got it in her mouth.

She heard but didn't see the ghoul. He sounded bored. "Awake at last? I'm going to leave you here with the mutant and return to my temporary accommodations above the plaza. It ate the Ghosts and seems calmer. I trust I'll be seeing you charming misfits in the square tomorrow, assuming you all survive.  _Do_  try not to endanger yourself again. I may not be there to pull off a heroic rescue next time." Without waiting for her response, the door slammed and the room was quiet again.

"Jesus," she croaked.

"Just God," came a gravelly voice from somewhere nearby. It almost sounded amused.

_Was that a joke?_ "Hey. Forgive me for not getting up. Do you any idea what time it is?"

"I'm not the one with a watch on my arm, human."

"Yeah. I know." With an effort, she lifted the Pip-Boy up to her face, using both hands to hold up her heavy left wrist. "Damn it. It's  _late_. I'd wanted to go back to the clinic today, especially since they have all the food. Did  _you_  get enough to eat, God?"

"Dog did," he replied heavily. "Enough that he was willing to go to sleep."

"Is there anything left?" Even though she wasn't serious, her stomach lurched again at the thought of Ghost-flesh between her teeth. "Never mind. I'm not even hungry. You wanna come out of that damned cell now?"

"Before I come out, I need you to do something else for me. Fetch something from down in the basement. Insurance against another escape attempt by Dog."

She was taken aback, but kept the irritation out of her voice. "That might take awhile. That Cloud - and that  _treatment_  - half-killed me. Sorry."

He was quiet, and Megan worked on wriggling the rest of the way out of her body armor. She was so engaged in this task, that she missed his soft-spoken question.

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'Why do you bother being courteous to me?' And to Dog?"

"I gain nothing by being rude to you. We're in this together, you know." She thought about telling God that her collar was inert, but decided not to just yet. "Besides, you're not the first nightkin I've met. Did you know Lily Bowen when you were in the Master's Army? She would have been wearing the persona of 'Leo' at the time. I trust her more than I trust most humans these days."

"I've lost most of who I was back then," he replied, a dangerous quality to his voice now. "In my experience, humans who claim to be friends with mutants are really just using them in some way. Like cattle. Or slaves. I will not be your  _friend_."

"I understand your concern. With Lily, though, it's a case of mutual need. She's a grandmother who needs someone to look after, and I need love. Family. She thinks I'm her grandchild and I can't persuade her otherwise. I've stopped trying."

God grunted, clearly far from convinced, but let the subject drop. Wondering now if she  _was_  actually taking advantage of Lily, Megan lay on her back and studied her hands. They were shaking like she was coming down from a two-day bender, and she frowned. This trip was doing her sobriety no favors at all. It would be stupid to escape, only to fall back into old habits. She resolved to try harder to avoid chems, and not to drink anymore. Avoiding the Cloud altogether would be a good step too.

"If you come out, I can treat your injuries. Maybe we can get that bear trap off of your arm."

"You would be in more danger than you have ever been before, human. If he emerged, Dog would  _not_  be grateful. He'd tear your head off, and be trying to put the trap back on even as his collar blew."

"It doesn't have to hurt. I brought med-x to take the edge off."

"You'll give me no more drugs. Is that your solution to everything?"

"For a long time, it was. That and violence. Old habits die hard. Stick your arm out then, and I'll use the tool kit from the closet to loosen the springs and pry it off."

It was a difficult, nasty job made more complicated by by her own weakness. To God's credit, he didn't pull away or lash out when she hurt him, even when she drew the rusty iron teeth from the muscle of his forearm. The trap had been there a long time, and the skin had closed around it. She whistled. "Do super mutants get tetanus?"

"We're resistant to most bacteria and viruses. I've never had an injury become infected."

"That's good." She rinsed the wounds, then held up the stimpak. "Is it okay if I use this on you? Will it work?"

"Stimpaks are fine." He hesitated, then added, "Thank you, human. I don't think you belong in this place at all."

" _De nada_. It was nothing." She yawned, and scooted back from the cage, uncertain of how he would take the information she was about to give him. "There's something you should know. My collar's not rigged to explode. Neither is Veronica's. She took out the charges before she put them on our necks. Either of our deaths will still kill you, the ghoul, and the woman we came here to save, but it doesn't work both ways."

She wasn't used to reading his expressions. She couldn't tell if he was angry, surprised, or just confused. "Why would you tell me this?"

"Knowledge is power. I don't want to hold power over you. Over anybody, really, but I don't trust Dean Domino enough to tell him yet. You deserve to be able to make decisions with a complete set of facts."

He laughed at this. "No, this is not the right place for you, hum-... what was your name again?"

"It's Megan. And I think I  _do_  deserve to be here - I'm atoning for the sins of a previous life."

He held his palms out to her, dark, syrupy blood already bleeding through the bandages she'd wound around his forearm. "Don't talk to  _me_  about sins, child. These hands personally crushed hundreds of men, women, and children, and dragged countless others to their doom, just like Dog does now. I don't remember it. I didn't do it willingly. But if I were to let myself dwell on it, I would never move beyond it. You can't have done even a fraction of the things I live with. Why not just leave it behind you?"

Megan curled her fingers around her collar, pressing her palm flat against the tiny grill of the microphone hidden on the inside. No sense in giving Elijah more information than he had already. He might try to use her, not realizing that she had no useful knowledge. "I used to be in the Enclave. You know who they were, right?"

"Still got the plasma burns from my last encounter with one of their patrols," he said in a conversational tone, almost happy now. "You're older than you look if that's true."

"Different group of 'em," she said shortly. "Well,  _they_  didn't have the excuse of being in the thrall of any Master. Lily told me what that was like - a voice speaking in your head, commanding you to do things whether you wanted to or not. The Enclave held a worldview that allowed them to demean literally everybody else as subhuman. You know what that empowered them to do. And on some level, I participated in their schemes. I don't remember what my last straw was - I like to imagine that I defected as a matter of conscience - but I'm afraid I did something terrible before I got to that point."

"You don't remember?"

"No. I'm not schizophrenic, but I'm not whole either. I do have a chance to find out - if I survive this place - but I'm scared of what I'll learn. Would you watch a play-by-play of your service in the Master's Army if you could?"

"Never. I think a lot of us embraced our madness as an escape from that past. My best advice to you is to leave that stone unturned. I'm going to rest now. I suggest you do the same." He turned away then, and lay against the far wall of his cell, his back toward her.

There were cells with cots in them all along the back wall, but before Megan could motivate herself enough to go to bed, she fell asleep on the floor again. This time, there were no dreams at all.

* * *

Waking this time, she felt much better, despite the stiffness and discomfort. Someone was leaning over her and she swung a sluggish fist at them, which her attacker intercepted easily.

"Stop it. I was just trying to find out if you were alright."

"Hi Veronica." Megan was confused. Wasn't Veronica somewhere else? Or had she made it back to the clinic after all? And why was she sleeping here? There were so many questions, and Veronica had one of her own.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm  _fine_." To prove this, she stood up, and then sat down again quickly when the color bled out of the world. "Okay, I'm a little out of it. I tried to run through the Cloud yesterday to get away from Ghosts. Almost died. Dean Domino saved me. Is he here too?"

"No..." Veronica said slowly.

"Is it morning?"

"Yes."

"Good. I slept, like, eighteen hours yesterday. I should be awesome." She took in the rest of the room. Christine and God were facing off silently, and Veronica's rucksack sat on the floor nearby, crammed to the brim with junk food. "Can I eat some of that, please?"

Two hours later, the five of them stood before Elijah's scowling visage at the fountain, all somewhat the worse for wear from the time they had spent in the Sierra Madre already. Dean kept himself apart from the rest, separate from common rabble. Christine wouldn't take her eyes off the image of her target, and kept reaching a hand up to be sure that the holorifle was still there - Veronica had relinquished the long gun to her, taking up one of the Ghost people's weighted fists for her weapon instead.

Megan stayed close to God, as she had on their walk from the police station to the plaza as well. Of her current companions, she trusted him the most, and knew she might need his help if it came to a sudden flight. The fact that she now held the "key" to locking Dog away again meant that he, too, was more comfortable with her. This was good. She was trying not to show it it, but she really wasn't in great shape going into the second act of this adventure. As she'd told Veronica over breakfast, "You're in charge today. I'm tapping out."

Elijah hadn't gotten this memo, but then again, he cared nothing for any of them. He addressed himself, not to her, but to the Pip-Boy on her wrist.

"Yes, well… that took you long enough. Now, for the festivities, and your parts in all this. This is the hard part. The owner of the Sierra Madre, for whatever reason, keyed the Grand Opening to the Gala Event itself. Stupid. It needs to be fired off in order for the casino doors to open. You,  _Courier_ , get your team to the positions indicated on your Pip-Boy, then trigger it properly using the instructions. After that - when you see the signal in the sky - that's when you'll need to break for the casino."

He carried on, with the manner of a man reading a list to himself, "So, that's the FEV reject on the switches,  _again_ , the ghoul to that rooftop in the southern part of the Puesta del Sol, and Veronica and the mute spare to the computers in the Salida del Sol station.  _You_  will go to the bell tower, Courier. Understood?"

Megan looked around at the others, silently asking for their input. Different shades of hatred were visible on all of their faces, mixed with other emotions - open fury on God's, contempt on Dean's, and cold focus on Christine's scarred visage. Veronica only looked sick, with a blank look of shock and disappointment. None of them spoke. Well, Elijah hadn't been addressing them, after all.

Blinking back some of the perpetual fuzziness in her vision, she found her tongue. "I guess we have no choice. Let's go have ourselves a Gala Event."


	5. Tag-Teaming

Pausing again in her narrative, Megan reached into her overflowing bag and pulled a bulky object out. "Present for you, Arcade." She slid a black plastic case toward him, cowering with the guilty attitude of a child who expects a lecture.

Arcade kept his face blank and neutral as he examined the contents, heart sinking when he saw what it contained. "That's a lot of med-x."

"Yeah. I thought you might keep some for your stores and then give the rest to the Followers." She picked at a burn mark on the table, refusing to meet his eyes. "Or not. I know you're still sore at Julie."

 _That's the understatement of the year_ , he thought. "Did you use any of this?" He expected her to say "no" regardless of what had actually happened, but he was fairly confident that he could read a lie if she offered him one.

"No. Someone  _else_  used it on me - like, three hits in the space of a day - but I didn't start in on it." She hesitated and sighed. "Wanted to, obviously. Carried it around for days, knowing I was playing with fire. But, other than some drinking, I didn't do anything that you would disapprove of this week." She thought for a moment. "Well, you probably wouldn't have liked how I  _actually_  handled Veronica in that basement. I can be a little cruel sometimes…"

Ignoring the rambling, he studied her face, looking for signs of abuse or withdrawal. She looked tired in spite of the long rest, and her skin was chapped and red from the wind and sun and, he presumed, the Cloud. But her eyes were normal and her mannerisms no more nervous than usual as she squirmed under scrutiny. "Are you alright?" he asked finally. "You really can tell me if you're not. I can help."

Her head bobbed like a puppet's on a string, eager to drop the subject. "Mm-hm. 'Course. That was  _days_  ago. And I wasn't even badly hurt."

"Then  _why_  did they-"

She spoke up quickly. "I'll get to that part soon. Let me just say this: Dean Domino may have been a good singer, but he was an asshole who deserved what he got."

Shaking his head in frustration, Arcade pulled a smaller syringe with a slightly thicker needle from the case, examining the lettering on it closely. " _This_  is not med-x."

"No, thank God, it's not. Thank Veronica, actually. She and Christine salvaged a bunch of that stuff out of one of the broken Auto-Docs. Why they had injectable adrenaline and nothing else in them, I don't know. She gave me a handful of syringes that morning in the police station, and it saved my life less than twelve hours later. Can you use it for anything?"

"Me personally? Probably not. I'll add it to the supplies to consider giving to Julie. Or, rather, to the people of Freeside. Every now and then, we… that is, the  _Followers_  get a case of severe anaphylactic shock rushed in. Cazador stings, mostly. Epinephrine has other clinical uses too, but we don't usually have any in our stores since our chemists can't synthesize it..." He cut off his own digression and addressed her bluntly, "Drop the flippancy for a second and be serious.  _Are_  you going to stay sober? Tonight, tomorrow, the day after that? In my experience, addicts who get a taste of their poison after a long drought tend to want more."

"Of course." There was no hesitation or guilty hiding there. Only fierce clarity. "I  _have_ to. Ulysses, remember?"

"Yes. Ulysses," he answered dully. He looked away, tired of this back-and-forth. If it wasn't one drug she wanted, it was another. The pursuit of revenge kept her sharp for now, but it wouldn't outlast her target's death. That was a problem in the making.

"Not just Ulysses," she corrected herself, subdued now. "You. I want  _you_  to approve of me. I'm not going to give you more trouble than I already have."

Arcade couldn't think of what to say to this naked expression of dependency. The cynical part of him wanted to ask if he could get that promise in writing, but he pushed that unhelpful impulse down. Instead, he landed on a series of truths that felt cold and off-putting when he said them. "You need to do it for yourself, not me. I won't be around forever. And, by the way, in case I've never mentioned it before,  _I don't approve of vengeance_."

"This is the last time, I swear. And this is not just about Boone. He's…  _dangerous_  to me, Arcade. And to you, for different reasons. I'm too afraid to leave him alive. I think if we try to run from him, someday I'm going to turn around and find you dead, too." She was wringing her hands now, leaving red striations and scratches on the skin, and he hastened to try and calm her down and inject some sanity into this conversation.

"That won't happen. How far do you think he would actually follow you? How would he even  _find_ us?"

"He would go as far as he needed to," Megan said with gloomy confidence. "He's a veteran spy and we'll be conspicuous strangers wherever we end up. I learned more about him this week. He's obsessed. Driven. Doesn't think like a normal person. We have some of that in common, but I think our methods are quite different." She took several deep breaths and then looked up again, hands still, a smile on her face once again. "Anyway, I'll get to him later. Can I keep going?"

"By all means."

* * *

The assembled collars were left standing uneasily in the middle of the square after Elijah's instructions. The mutant was still glaring at the place where the scowling face had been a moment before, and the ghoul was looking askance at the ragged triangle of weary humans. Megan sat cross-legged on the pavement and appeared to be studying the coordinates on her Pip-Boy. She made no move to suggest a direction. If they were going to stage a Gala Event today, it'd be under Veronica's leadership. As Megan had said in no uncertain terms over breakfast, "You're in charge today. I'm tapping out."

This wasn't a request so much as it was an assertion, and Veronica didn't have the heart to argue the point. Her own last twenty-four hours had been emotionally catastrophic, chiefly because her reunion with Christine had not gone as she'd imagined it at all, but at least  _she'd_  had a chance to rest properly for the first time in many days. Whatever happened next, she felt more or less prepared to meet it, especially now that the uncertainty of her search was over. Megan, on the other hand, looked as if one more hit would finish her off.

"Can I carry the Pip-Boy?" Veronica asked once the silence had stretched on too long. She fully expected to be told to go fuck herself. Megan's answer was surprisingly mild, but brooked no compromise.

"Nope. It's  _mine_  and it makes me essential to your old teacher, so I'm not going to give it up." She climbed slowly to her feet, eyes still locked on the screen. "I'll help navigate, go where you go, and so forth. I just don't want to make decisions or take the lead on anything for a while. Okay?"

"Alright." What else could she say? Veronica had retained very little power over the battered Courier at this point. She'd forfeited the moral ground when she'd kidnapped her and lost fear and intimidation as a weapon when the collar was revealed to be a dud. It behooved her to play nice, and not just because they would need the entire group's full cooperation to pull this off. The only thing preventing the unpredictable woman from running across the courtyard and scaling the gate to freedom was her unwillingness to kill three people. Well, that and the fact that Dean Domino would almost certainly shoot to wing her in an effort to save his own life.

Veronica noticed the ghoul watching the exchange between the two of them with a calculating expression on his wreck of a face, and decided to step up and take charge like she meant it before he could get mutinous ideas. "Okay. Let's find the switches where the mut-... where  _God_  is going to stay first." She couldn't help how she felt about the creature - mingled disgust, pity, and fear - but she tried to be polite when she addressed it directly. "Elijah implied that you had done this before. Do you have any information we need to know about your role?"

He glared at her from his immense height, making it perfectly clear that her flimsy show of respect was a transparent failure. "It was  _Dog_  who did it before, not me. But," he amended, "as he demonstrated, any idiot can pull a few switches in the right order. The largest switch takes some strength, so the part really does have to go to me." Apparently uninterested in continuing the conversation, he turned away from her and resumed his place flanking Megan. Veronica noticed with bemused interest that he was carrying her bag for her, the satchel ludicrously small on his massive shoulder.

Squaring her shoulders resolutely, she addressed the entire group. "Let's go, then. Lead the way, navigator."

The size of their entourage, moving in tight formation along major thoroughfares, must have been a deterrent to the Ghosts, for they met none on their way to God's station. Walking beside Christine, who really did look more like her old self with the holorifle on her back, Veronica tried to think of something -  _anything_  - to say to break the ice that had settled between them. It wasn't just the time apart, or the effects of trauma, or the precariousness of their situation that made things chilly and strange. Christine had matured, grown into her sense of duty, and Veronica had remained the same careless, inconstant drifter she had always been. To add to this, Christine was openly judging her for the way she had played into Elijah's hands, and had brought another victim along for the ride.

 _She's Enclave_ , Veronica wanted to explain.  _She killed Avery Stanton without a thought, and caused the deaths of so many others through sheer stupidity._   _Forget what she looks like; she's the most dangerous person in the Mojave and she deserves this._  She had told Christine none of this - in her nightmarish mind's eye, she saw Megan killing the Brotherhood assassin somehow, somewhere down the road, in an act that any jury would call self-defense, a natural consequence of two unrelenting forces meeting head-on. If that happened, though, Veronica would know the real truth: it would be her fault,  _again_ , for exposing her people to the Courier, whose every move was a thoughtless, knee-jerk reaction to stimuli.  _No. I won't tell her._

Someone jogged her elbow and she tore her eyes from their study of their surroundings and looked at Christine, who was regarding her with a question in her eyes. She held up a hand, making it "talk" like a puppet, then brushed two fingers against Veronica's lips, ending with an interrogative tilt of her head.

She shivered at the feeling that even this passionless gesture had on her - it had been a long time since  _anyone_  had touched her - and realized that she had been talking to herself under her breath.  _What was I saying?_  she worried to herself.

"Nothing," she said, forcing a smile to cover up her panic. "I'm just not very happy with myself right now. It doesn't matter." Marching on, she kept them all moving at a good pace, orienting herself all the while to the casino at the center of the villa. Soon, that would be the only safe place - or, rather,  _relatively_ safe place - to be found.

* * *

God couldn't think of the phrase in French, but as he retraced Dog's steps in the company of the other prisoners, his mind was swallowed up by the knowledge that he'd done and seen all of this before, albeit with slightly different company. He'd walked this way in a dream, along with an escaped convict dressed in blue, a grizzled treasure-seeker, and a tribal girl far from from home, smelling of herbs and campfires and desperation. The last had been barely more than a child, and terrified of him - and for good reason, too. Dog had been on top then. They had all four made it to the casino, but only Dog had come out, stomach bulging from the remains of the child and her collar, as well as pieces of the two men. He hadn't killed her himself, God knew; that had been the convict, for no better reason than the girl had gotten between him and the supposed treasure of the Sierra Madre. That fact made the burden of the half-memory no easier to bear. The convict and the prospector had finished each other off shortly afterwards, leaving only Dog to blunder stupidly around by himself in the sumptuous tomb until Elijah provided an exit.

This group would fare no better in the end. God had the number of most of them. He distrusted the ghoul, had  _smelled_  him long before this chapter of the escapade, and knew him to be as much a part of the Sierra Madre as the Ghosts. He had realized only after Elijah's casual dismissal of Domino that the Old Man did not, in fact, see the ghoul for what he was: a rival for the same prize as himself. God wondered how Dog had caught the slippery old ghoul in the first place, and wished that the brute had simply crushed that treacherous head instead.

God knew perfectly well that the two older women despised him for what he was; he was well-accustomed to this, however, and contented himself with passively hating them both in return. The other one, the kind one, he resented merely for being here, and for being another victim whose death he'd be forced to accept sooner or later. But perhaps not for long. He prodded his own aching belly, where the activated collar was still sharing uneasy space with the slowly digesting Ghost-flesh. This time, both God and Dog would be freed along with the others, one way or another. He expected agony at the end, not daring to hope for success. In any case, he didn't believe that Elijah intended to offer him his freedom at all. As long as he wanted a slave, the old man would permit him to live; when he no longer needed Dog's slavish nature and brute strength, he would simply have him killed. Unless God could get his hands around that bony neck first.

A light touch and a high voice interrupted this pleasant fantasy. "God, I know a doctor who specializes in treating nightkin. He might be able to surgically remove that collar if it doesn't… uh, pass on its own."

He glared down at the too-eager interruption, the one companion he could tolerate. Barely. "A human doctor?"

Earnest good will shone in Megan's eyes. "Yes. A scientist who's made the study and treatment of nightkin schizophrenia his work for decades."

"Why would he do that? What does he gain from it?"

"He gains a problem to solve. That's literally all he wants. He doesn't care about nightkin or humans or anything except dogs, really. But with medication and surgery, some of the nightkin in the Mojave are improving. You could go to him after we escape. He lives in Jacobstown - a community far to the northwest of Vegas, high in the mountains. A super-mutant named Marcus is the mayor."

He frowned, his memory slowly dredging up the relevant associations. "I knew Marcus once, when he was playing at being a sheriff. He was always very chummy with humans. As if they could forget what he was. Tell me something,  _Megan_ : this doctor, when he 'fixes' my brethren, is he not just forcing them into a shape more convenient for human uses?"

"Maybe," she began thoughtfully. "But it's for their own safety, too. The fact is that Lily's less likely to be killed by a torch-wielding mob than Leo. The same goes for you. It'd be better for Dog to be an integrated part of you - for his own sake, and for when a situation demands that you call on his strength and brutality - but between the two of you, you fit better into civilized life."

Words meant to assuage anger only conjured up old bitterness, and he snapped back with more force than he intended, "Tell that to the humans that shoot at me on sight. Who have always barred me and mine from their  _civilized_  cities."

She didn't flinch. "I can't help that - and I can't speak or apologize for them, or pretend to understand what it's been like for you."

"No. You really can't."

"I just wanted you to have that option. And if you  _do_  decide to go, don't drag your feet too much. Dr. Henry is  _very_  old. We can't actually take you back to the Mojave with us, I'm afraid - you'd never fit in our vehicle - but I can show you my map when we stop."

"Forget it for now." He was tired of discussing the issue and tired of hoping for a different existence. There were other, more immediate problems to confront. He drew her aside with an enormous hand and whispered, as quietly as his vocal register would allow, " _Watch the ghoul."_

Surprised, she turned automatically to look at Domino, who was casually pretending to clean his disgusting fingernails as he brought up the rear. "What? Why?"

"The Old Man thinks that  _I'm_  the biggest liability to his enterprise. As much as I wish that were true, it's not. He counts the rest of you - Domino included - as pawns who will do what he asks to save their lives. But I know different. The ghoul considers himself in control, even with the collar.  _Don't turn your back on him_."

"I won't. Thank you for the warning."

* * *

They left God in the tiny, gated courtyard with his switches, and continued onward to the place where Veronica and Christine (the "mute spare," as Elijah had forced her to think of herself) would be performing their role while the ghoul and the Courier carried out theirs. With the mutant's hulking presence no longer affording them protection, they encountered a large group of Ghosts only two blocks away. Christine took savage pleasure in first disabling the lead pair at a distance, then scoring a direct hit on a gas bomb wielded by another, incinerating the entire bunch at once.

"Nice shooting," Megan remarked, holding her unfired pistol loosely in one hand, her bag slung over the opposite shoulder. "I couldn't do that in a million years. You're good."

Christine accepted the compliment with a curt nod, wondering just what the other's skills  _were_. She still didn't know much about her. There were several complex things that she very much wanted to communicate to Megan-the-Courier, and several things that she wanted to ask about in turn. These things were beyond the range of hand-signals to express, however, and she was forced to rely on observation to learn about the person lingering at the edge of their little group.

Veronica - a sad, broken shell of the girl she had known years before - was of little help as an intermediary. She hated and feared Megan for some reason, but would not say why. She did not want to talk about the woman at all, and pretended not to understand Christine's frequent inquiries into the subject.

This was what Christine had learned thus far: Megan and Veronica  _had_  been friends, once, until Megan had offended the Brotherhood of Steel in some way, the details of which were a mutual secret between the other two. She also knew that Megan was  _not_  NCR, that she liked mutants, and that she had a reputation in the Mojave. For what, Christine still didn't know. Good, bad, or chaotic neutral, she was the Courier. Even Elijah had heard of her, if only from a distance. Christine had been out of the loop for over a year now, and had missed recent events altogether.

After struggling for some time to follow the marker on the map through the twisted, too-similar streets, they arrived at the drab building that housed the computer banks which they would use to reroute the Villa's power to the Gala and synchronize the various elements of the display. Immune to the speakers lining the walls, Veronica volunteered to take the service elevator to the top to access the main computer, leaving Christine to work out the mechanical side of the problem from the bottom. The ghoul had made himself scarce, doubtless skulking about somewhere in the dimly-lit foyer. Megan dropped into an unoccupied chair and spun in lazy half-circles, watching Christine study the map of fuses and compare it to what she found behind a panel on the wall.

"Is that hard?" When Christine looked at her, Megan waved a lazy, all-encompassing hand. "The spatial reasoning or what-have-you to figure that sort of thing out. I'm not so good at puzzles and patterns like that, at least in the abstract. I don't know if I was before or not. I don't remember."

Christine shrugged.  _Math_  still clicked in her mind. Diagrams still made sense. The mechanics of guns and other machines were familiar to her. It was words that refused to resolve into meaning. She had no idea of what the robots at Big MT had been  _trying_ to do with her, but if targeted brain damage had been their goal, then they had done it very well, with minimal peripheral effects. If it hadn't been for her days of horror in the Auto-Doc, she could have managed. As things stood, however, the future stretched out, long and silent and uncertain. She didn't like to think about it.

An abrupt change of subject caught her entirely off-guard, interrupting her worrying. "Veronica's  _trying_ , you know. Floundering, but trying to win you over, or at least get you out safe. She's being a little irrational, but I don't exactly blame her for the approach she took to crack this place. If things had been different, we might have come here as allies. She's helped me before; I would have helped her."

Christine made a rough, questioning gesture, a demanding, beckoning hand asking for answers.  _Tell me_. Encouraged to talk, Megan was perfectly willing to oblige. It was as if she had been waiting for the invitation.

"Did she mention that the Mojave Brotherhood kicked her out? That the former residents at Hidden Valley have retreated from the area? It's partly the Legion's fault, partly  _my_  fault and largely Elder Hardin's fault for not understanding the times he found himself in, but Veronica views it as a consequence of her mistakes. She's feeling pretty guilty right now." Correctly interpreting the startled, accusing glare Christine gave her, Megan continued glibly, "No, I didn't attack the  _bunker_. I was focused on the real enemy. Your paladins came after me, killed my friend for no reason. Me and my… sniper killed them. The others died when they got cut off by Lanius' army. It was a stupid, senseless waste of lives and resources. They should have fought alongside the NCR at the Dam or with the defenders at Vegas. Or just stayed in their hole. Your people have lost their way."

Dropping the diagram, Christine locked eyes and mouthed a word that even the world's worst lip-reader couldn't miss.  _Why?_  Other questions came unbidden to her lips as well, such as  _How on earth did_ you  _kill a Brotherhood Paladin?_  Her empty, raw throat choked on these words, though, and she gave up, seething with impatience and anger.

"If I told you, then I might have to kill you too." She smiled as if it was a joke. "I really don't want to do that. I have to go meet someone named Ulysses soon, and I don't want to kill anybody else I don't have to. Just him. After that, I'll be moving out of the Brotherhood's reach, and that's a good thing. I'm not a bad person, Christine, but I  _will_  survive this and everything else that comes, too. Whether I really want to or not."

If Christine had been wary before, she was on high alert now. If  _this_  really was Ulysses' long-sought target, then she was more than the unstable mercenary she seemed. She put aside all thoughts of finishing her task - there was really no point, since they'd need Veronica's undamaged brain to double-check the result anyway - and turned her focus fully on the woman in front of her. She'd interrogated people as a part of her missions before, using methods of pain and psychological manipulation to extort what she needed; she required none of those here, however, as the object of her curiosity wanted no prompting to talk.

Megan was continuing, half to herself now, hugging her knees and looking at the ground as her chair continued to revolve slowly around. "I want to live a normal, quiet, inconsequential life. Apparently, that's been too much to ask for so far. Every time I get to a place where I think 'this is alright,' something happens, duty calls, and I have to suit up. It doesn't always go well. I  _mean_  well, though. I think intent matters more than anything else. Like Socrates says in that one book. Don't you think so?"

Christine shook her head firmly. Judging people's actions by that standard gave too much leeway to madmen and well-intentioned idiots.  _Elijah_  probably thought he was working for the greater good, but she had followed his trail long enough to know that the power he sought here had the potential to be far more destructive than the Legion's barbarous brutality - more dangerous than anything else the West had seen in her lifetime. The consequences - or potential consequences - of an act were enough reason for the Brotherhood to enact swift justice.

"No? Oh well. Doesn't matter. Like I said, I'm done with the big stuff. I'm done with the Mojave. Thanks to the fucking NCR, you'll eventually learn who I am, but by then I'll be far away. Nothing to worry about. Plus, I'll have the most morally-grounded person I've ever met keeping me in check."

Christine waited a minute, but she seemed to be done with her confession, whatever  _that_  was about. She knew she was being toyed with - the tone and the words were light and teasing - but she also thought she could hear genuine remorse and anguish buried underneath. She studied the person sitting in front of her like a detective searching for evidence of a crime. She was thin and scarred. Despite her youthful appearance, she was beginning to show the signs of hard living in an unforgiving environment. Underneath this wear and tear, however, she still had the height and skeletal structure that one seldom found outside of a bunker. When she smiled, Christine could see nearly a full set of teeth, still white and firmly rooted to the gums. The Pip-Boy was another clue. Pointing to the device, she tried to ask another question.  _Are you from a vault?_

Megan stroked the device fondly. "This? Doc Mitchell, in Goodsprings, gave it to me. He's from Vault 21. I'm from a different vault, somewhere in Maine, but I have no idea where my original Pip-Boy got to. Lost it somewhere, I guess."

 _Maine?_  Christine mouthed in genuine surprise. She made her fingers walk the length of her arm and then pointed at Megan.  _Why come so far?_ she wondered.

Another teasing smile contrasted oddly with a newly-guarded look in her eyes. "Yeah, I walked the road from there to here. I don't remember it, but it must've taken a while. I showed up in the Mojave about a year and a half ago, just in time to get shot in the head. The rest, as they say, is history."

 _Alone?_ Christine made the travelling sign again, and held up her index finger.  _Did you do that by yourself? Of course you didn't. No way. Not on foot._

The bantering tone was back in full swing, and her eyes sparkled with mischievous good humor. "Was it just me? I guess so. No one's shown up to tell me different.  _Gosh_ , that must have been dangerous. I would have been quite young when I set out, too. Barely an adult." The first part of this was a lie, an obvious one; it was as if she'd offered it up for lack of anything else to say. Not for the first time, Christine wished that her people had been able to keep an open line of communication with Lyons' group in the east. No one knew much of what was happening on the other coast of the country, and the rumors they  _did_  hear through the traders' grapevine were at once alarming and fantastical. Cyborgs were one thing, but true-to-life, sentient androids? Pure science fiction. Still, she thought, the Brotherhood should send scouts to investigate.

Veronica returned at this juncture, ready to complete the work that Christine had abandoned, and the interview was over by unspoken agreement. Watching the ghoul and the woman leave a few minutes later, the Brotherhood assassin resolved that she  _would_  get the answers she wanted, eventually. Even if it was then too late to act on what she learned, the mystery was too interesting to let go.

* * *

The job that Elijah had in mind for the most intelligent member of his team was pure, mindless make-work, less complicated even than the mutant's task. Dean Domino didn't know why the old man had bothered to assign him to it at all. A six-foot piece of wire could connect the circuit just as well, and the ragged girl with the Pip-Boy, his only remaining companion, had the necessary supplies to make him redundant. Thus he followed her to the scene of the last stage and the highest point in the villa: the bell tower.

Even though the flesh of his ears had partly crumbled away over the centuries, Dean Domino had better hearing than people gave him credit for. He had overheard the mutant's pathetic attempt at a warning, and had since found it amusing to observe the young woman's cautious circling as they carried out the last task alone together, high above the rooftops. She never stopped watching him, never let down her guard.

But Dean had always been a student of people and their character, and even his years of relative solitude hadn't dampened that skill much. After all, there had been a number of… subjects… wandering into the Sierra Madre over time, even before the grey-bearded upstart had begun his little stage-play. Dean had had his fun with these, toying with them, promising help, keeping them alive only as long as it suited him. This specific moron's long-overdue attempt at caution was no match for his honed wits.

He knew he couldn't  _kill_  her outright. Not yet. Once inside the insulated walls of the casino, Dean had inferred that it would be safe to carefully eliminate the others. Any of those walls - even those on the interior - along with a little distance would block the signal and give him a safe refuge from the countdown that their deaths would spark. Then it would be just him, the ugly woman whose voice he had stolen while she slept, and the old man. In the end, there would be only Dean Domino and Sinclair's treasure. No one else.

All it took to disarm her was a little pain. His own. He let the screwdriver that he'd been using to replace a switchplate over some frayed wires slip, gouging his forearm lightly in the process. Long, long ago, decades before his last show, Dean had been an actor. That hadn't been his  _true_  calling, but he could still summon up enough talent for this role and this audience. The clumsy old man and his fumbled tool. The colorful cursing. The only thing left to complete the scene was for the bleeding heart  _carer_  to rise to play the part he had written for her.

Finished priming the secondary switches, she turned and looked at him doubtfully, sympathy competing with wariness now. "Maybe I should finish up there. How bad's that cut?"

He let his blood stain his white cuff, grimacing with appropriate feeling and hissing in pain. "It's nothing. I'll give it one more turn, and we can throw the switch."

She was already moving to help, and he grinned inwardly. Hadn't he  _known_? "There's no rush, Domino. Once we set this off, we'll be under some pressure to move fast, you know. Let me wrap that up for you first. You don't want to climb down the ladder like that."

A sigh, and a response inflected with just enough grudging, embarrassed gratitude to be convincing. "If you insist."

She knelt beside her open bag, pulling things out to get to what she wanted, exposing the nape of her neck to him. Had it suited him, he could have killed her instantly, stabbing the bloody screwdriver into her brainstem. The remainder of the wire joined the tool kit on the ground, followed by extra ammo and her  _stash_. Underneath all of this lay the first aid kit, but he didn't give her a chance to retrieve it. Wouldn't need it, either. She couldn't see it, but the wound was already clotting under his torn sleeve. Ghouls healed fast.

His arm snaked under her chin. Braced with his other arm, it formed a tight triangle that the surprised woman could not break. With full weight bearing down on her, she couldn't even rise from the ground. In a hand-to-hand fight he would have given her even chances, but as it was she was bested before it began. Within five seconds, she was weakening, stupidly clawing at his grip instead of reaching for a weapon. In ten, she was unconscious. He held it for another count of five, as long as he dared, and then relaxed. He had a few seconds. It was time enough to do what he needed to prevent her from following him and complicating the next stage.

Dean had read her like a book at their first meeting, and had confirmed his suspicions at the police station. Vera's body had carried the same pattern of small, puckered scars. It didn't matter that the ones on this girl were mostly old and healed; once an addict, always an addict, as Dean well knew. Well, he was merciful. He would give her exactly what she wanted. Hers would be an easier death than the others' would when their time came.

One was too few to guarantee that she wouldn't be getting up. Three was too many to count on her continuing to breathe as he made his bid for the casino. He administered two syringes of med-x, and thoughtfully left her the remainder of the box as a comfort for her last days or hours, or however long she survived alone out here. By the time he reached to remove her Pip-Boy - the old man would be dealing with  _him_  directly now - she was surfacing, but only slowly, as the drug stacked on the aftereffects of the choke-out. She offered only slight protest to the loss of her most valuable tool, and he strapped it to his own bony wrist, disliking the weighty heft of it.

"Goodbye, Courier, whoever you were," he drawled. "It was nothing personal." And he threw the switch, lighting up the sky, and driving the Ghosts below into a murderous frenzy.

* * *

Pacing within his well-stocked prison inside the casino, studying the screen that displayed the locations of his collars, Elijah sensed rather than heard the cogs of the Grand Gala grind into motion once more, at which point his prisoners sprang into action. Collar 8, the FEV reject, wasn't moving fast enough for Elijah's liking - he really did need the mutant's strength to put everybody into position once they were choked out from the gas. Perhaps it had met a pack of Ghosts. 13 and 12, his former pupil and the assassin, were making good time toward the doors. 14 was being more cautious, taking side corridors, but still making progress. At this point, Elijah frowned, noticing an anomalous blip on the display.  _14_  was carrying the bright dot that represented the Pip-Boy now. 21 remained at the bell tower, alive but motionless.

 _No, no, no… no more power plays. I thought I had fixed this!_ He didn't particularly care which of them took instruction from him. But if they started killing or disabling one another willy-nilly, they could jeopardize the entire operation. 21 had been weak but resourceful. 14 - the ghoul - was an unknown quantity, and apparently a treacherous one.

Agitated and helpless to do anything but wait, he turned away from the screen. He could do nothing to ensure that the  _right_  prisoners made it in before the doors slammed shut again - and they would, in a quarter of an hour. He could only wait, and hope that he wouldn't have to begin again from scratch.


	6. The End of the Beginning

Pausing her story on that cliffhanger, Megan stopped to produce a snowglobe from her bag and gave it a good shake. She watched the red brown dust of a mini-Cloud whirl around the microcosm inside, letting every particle settle before shaking it again.

Arcade knew she was waiting for him to ask about it, so he obliged. "So… where did you get that?"

She answered him cheerfully, "I honestly don't know. That whole run from the bell tower is a bit fuzzy after a point. I had it in my pocket when I came to. Nice, isn't it?"

He gave the object a passing glance, mildly curious about who had made it and when. Wasn't the Cloud a post-War development? "Very nice. How much longer is this story? I do want to know if you survived, of course, but there are a few things I need to do today."

"This is the last leg of it, promise. We can take a break whenever you want. I kinda want to go out to see Lily and buy lunch soon. I didn't really starve in the Sierra Madre, but I didn't get enough to eat either. I'm still hungry."

He sighed. "Just finish it, then. I want to know exactly how to feel about Veronica before she wakes up."

"'Kay. Hey, have you ever heard of a place called Big MT?"

Tilting his chair back on two legs, Arcade almost fell backwards in surprise. "Heard of it, yes. As a bygone  _legend_. They used to fulfill the... er, the US army's special weapons requests, before the war. I've seen their mark on Enclave gear. What do  _you_  know about it?"

"Well, I know approximately where it is now." She tapped her Pip-Boy. "Christine… Elijah… Ulysses… they all passed through it at about the same time. Christine described a hellhole ruled by senile robo-brains and run by automatic processes succumbed to entropy. But there is still quite a bit going on there, apparently."

"We're not going there, are we?" he asked with equal parts alarm and interest. He had long since resigned himself to accompanying the Courier to the ends of the earth, and a semi-mythical research center seemed like the sort of place that would eventually draw her in.

She grimaced. "Only if you really, really want to. The things those robots did to Christine  _my_  poor brain cannot take. And it would do your looks no good either."

Arcade didn't know if he was disappointed or relieved. Some of both, he decided. "I can pass. I thought Christine couldn't talk. How did she tell you all this?"

She only smiled. "All will be made clear in time. Shall I continue?"

* * *

_I'm not going to fall asleep. I'm just resting for a moment_. Megan was warm and happy, numb from the eyeballs down, and high. Very, very high. She didn't even have to feel guilty about it, because  _someone_  had taken the agency out of her hands on this one.  _Dean-fucking-Domino. I'm going to kill him,_ she thought without any real anger. How could she be upset with someone who made her feel so good? But she really  _had_  to get moving now. The casino was open now, but it wouldn't be for long. It might be relatively safe up here, but the Ghosts would cut her off from escape, water, and food if she didn't move. If thirst or exposure didn't kill her, then loneliness would. She wanted to be with the others, even if none of them liked her very much.  _One more minute, and then I'll open my eyes_ , she decided.

She could feel a sharp, pointy object poking into her back.  _The screwdriver_ , she thought dimly - it didn't  _hurt_ , nothing hurt - but it was still annoying enough to attempt rolling over. She made it to her side. Her arm hit a black box beside her, making the contents rattle. Ah. So Dean hadn't taken the med-x away. He'd left it all for her. Nice of him. A ton of med-x, and some adrenaline for when she wanted to simulate terror for some reason. What had Veronica called it? Epi-something. "It wakes you up," she had said.

"Good idea, 'Ronica." Megan climbed to her knees by sheer, herculean effort, but that wasn't the hard part. Colors swam in front of her eyes and her hands were heavy and unresponsive. The first three syringes she grabbed were just more med-x. The fourth felt different. She hoped it was what she needed, because this was going to be her last shot. She giggled.  _Ha_.  _Shot_.  _No pun intended._

_A vein, a vein, I need a vein._ There was a gap in her armguards - Dean had found it, hadn't he? - but she couldn't get to it. Hoping it would do  _something_  in muscle, she jammed it through the webbing on on her armored leg and pushed the plunger home. She didn't even feel the needle go in.

* * *

"You don't know how lucky you are," Arcade interrupted at this point, his hands over his face. "You don't that stuff directly into your bloodstream. That could have killed you. Stopped your little drugged-up heart."

"Oh. You never told me that." She managed to make this sound like an accusation.

"It didn't make my list of the top five thousand things you might conceivably need to know to survive. I'll be sure to expand that list in the future."

* * *

It did  _something_ , that was for sure. She found herself, if not totally back down to earth, at least back in her own body. Capable of acting on the fear she now felt. Not knowing how long it would last, she grabbed two more of the same off the top and jammed these into her pocket, and dropped the case into her open bag. The toolbox was… somewhere, and its contents were scattered about the floor. She half-stooped to pick up the screwdriver, but gave up when she almost lost her balance.

"I'll find more tools if I need them," she said out loud, breathing hard for some reason, as if she'd been running a race instead of lying on the floor. "Got to go."

The ladder proved challenging. Her muscles were drawn tight, jangling like strings on a guitar. She kept forgetting whether she was going up or down, something that frightened her more than a little. The trapdoor was above, and the concrete floor was below, but she couldn't tell how far she'd travelled. An eternity of climbing went by before she missed a rung and fell the last few feet, her sweat-slippery fingers losing their grip on the bars. It didn't hurt - honestly, she didn't think anything in the world could have caused her pain at the moment - but it did stun her for a moment, knocking the air out of her lungs. The lethargy was creeping back already and she pulled out the next syringe and used it as well, jamming the needle into her twitching muscle.

The rush of the chemical got her on her feet again, but at the cost of another shock to her system.  _I'm dying_ , she decided, as she staggered in the direction she thought she'd last seen the casino. It felt that way. Her lungs and heart strained to keep up with the pace her body had set for itself, and she worried that some vital part of her would burst under the stress.

"Help me," she croaked out through dry lips, then fell silent. There was no one around except Ghosts. She needed to move on her own power. To run as if her life depended on it. Too late, she regretted leaving the bell tower, but climbing back up wasn't feasible. Instead, she picked a path through the villa and ran, hoping against hope that it was the right one.

This had all the earmarks of a nightmare - the sensation of being chased, the visceral fear knotting up her stomach, and the confusion that kept her thoughts in a constant whirlwind. She staggered in and out of shops, upstairs and downstairs, catching only the occasional glimpse of the last rays of the sun gleaming off of the crest of the casino roof. Somehow, she met no hostile Ghosts, though dark shapes fluttered always at the edge of her vision. Maybe they took her for one of their own, another lost, disoriented prisoner in the warrens of the old resort.

Stumbling into an open space, her legs gave out abruptly and she fell for the last time, bruising her chin and almost breaking her teeth out against a stone ledge. Above her, as if through a misty curtain, she could see the ghost of a beautiful woman in an ancient dress, revolving slowly over a dead fountain. Her hand curled spasmodically around the third and last syringe in her pocket, but she didn't quite dare to use it. She knew she was close now and didn't want to die so near her goal. She'd have a rest, and then she'd run, walk, or crawl the last short distance. She could spare a minute, surely. Heedless of the danger, her eyes slid closed.

"Are you still alive?" A harsh voice chewed at her ears and called her back from the darkness. "Must be, or I'd know." There was humorless laughter, like rocks in a rusty pipe, and rough, giant hands lifted her. "You smell like chems," God told her. "You smell like the ghoul. I told you to watch him, didn't I? Well, I'll kill him for you and get back your toy…"

There was a jump - a lull in consciousness - and they were in the casino at last, where the air was cool and relatively clear. At least it was clear until gas began to hiss out of vents somewhere above as they crossed the threshold. God growled and quickened his pace to move away. "He's trying to knock you out. Stupid old man. The lively ones won't be taken twice with that trick. And Dog's not here to drag you puppets around."

He laid her down, surprisingly gently, on a smooth tile floor, arranging her limbs so she'd stay on her side. She cracked an eyelid. A vending machine glowed like a moon that filled the sky, too-bright and glaring. She closed the eye again and groaned.

"I'm going to go find those women." Unless she was mistaken, God sounded concerned. "They can help you more than I can. Here's your water if you decide you can drink some. Hold on, girl."

Sleep overtook her, and held onto to her for a very long time afterwards, giving her a few seconds of release every now and then, enough to be certain that no one, neither God nor anybody else, had come back to check on her. At some point, she must have vomited, because she came to with a sticky yellow puddle under her cheek. Sitting up, hands and arms shaking, she pulled the cork on of one of her remaining two bottles of water and drank it carefully, using a little to wash the bitter stink off of her face. This was all the effort she could handle, however, and she lay back down, away from her mess, and went to sleep again.

Hours or days went by in this fashion, and Megan gradually became aware of her surroundings. God had left her nested in the protective circle of a wraparound counter. On the shelves, at eye level when she was lying on the ground, she could see menus, napkins, and silverware. Atop the counter sat a dark terminal and a cash register. Scattered around these items were dozens of Sierra Madre chips - more of the things she'd been collecting since she'd arrived, but hadn't yet needed to use.

Her water was long gone when she finally mustered up the energy to crawl toward the vending machine that had been taunting her through the long hours of convalescence. One by one, she dropped every chip she could find into the little slot, and began scrolling blindly through the offerings. She quickly discovered that the display was not designed for the illiterate, let alone the dehydrated and disoriented.

"Wuh, wuh _..._  water starts with 'w,'" she told herself out loud, for no better reason than she was lonely. "I know what a 'w' looks like." She wasted a lot of chips on this information. On her first two attempts, a small package of watch batteries dropped into her hands, followed by a bottle of wine. On her third attempt, she was rewarded with a glass bottle of water. It was even cold, the most refreshing drink she'd ever tasted.

She repeated the request, then used the same process of trial and error to scope out the food options. By the time her chips were gone, she was almost full and felt a hundred percent better. By then, too, she had recovered enough to worry about her companions. They could have all been killed while she slept, for all she knew. God hadn't returned, which meant he'd either met trouble or been converted into Dog against his will.

No longer hungry or thirsty, Megan took stock of her physical condition and resources. Things could be worse. She felt a little weak, true, and her clothes stank from her own excretions, but she trusted her legs to carry her to where she needed to go, so long as it wasn't too far away. Dean had taken her Pip-Boy, but he'd left her the police pistol. She sneered. That had been a bad move on his part.

Gathering her few scattered possessions and replacing them in her bag, she stood upright for the first time in two days, slowly and carefully, giving her circulation a chance to catch up. Leaning on the counter that had sheltered her, she took stock of her surroundings. She thought it was the foyer of a fancy restaurant, but couldn't be sure. On one side of the large room were double doors leading (perhaps?) to a dining room. Dusty velvet ropes barred the entrance from this direction. On the other side, only a few yards from where she'd been lying, was another set of doors, this one marked with a glowing EXIT sign that even she could recognize.

The lobby was empty. There were no bodies or signs of violence. It was possible, she considered, that the automated systems of the casino could have cleaned up almost anything. On the darkened floor of the casino's game room, she could see the glowing silhouettes of the holograms; giving this a pass for now, she bypassed the massive theater entrance - the posters of Dean Domino plastered on the doors were too much of a bad omen - and made her way toward the back, to what she hoped would be a residential area, containing the things she needed. More food. Water for washing. A real bed.

In some ways, it was nice to be a little out of it. Taking the path of least resistance, she snaked in and out of the warren-like hotel, bypassing security by sheer luck, accidentally stepping in and out of a Cloud-drift before she even noticed it, and without even thinking about the fact that there might be Ghosts here. She passed two dead ones, in fact, torn apart by beams of concentrated energy. This made her happy - it meant Veronica and Christine had come this way - but it didn't teach her caution.

Finally, a door. Unbroken and whole, with dusty footprints leading itself. A nice one, with handsome fittings and a reinforced steel surface with a hydraulic seal that could have repelled a horde of frenzied mutants. She rang the doorbell and waited, leaning against the wall for support. She didn't have a contingency plan for if no one opened it. Luckily, she didn't need one: in less than a minute, Veronica let her in.

"Where the fuck have you been?" She wrinkled her nose. "You smell really bad, you know?"

Megan wobbled past her, looking for a place to sit down, flopping down full length on a dusty sofa. "You're all heart. Serious question: when did I last see you? I have no idea what time it is now. Or what day."

"We've been here for almost two days. What happened to you?"

"Dean Domino happened. He hurt me and tried to strand me out there. Took my Pip-Boy. God carried me in. After that, it's a blur for a while. What have you two been doing?"

"Recovering." This was a new voice, smooth and rich and confident. "Learning more about this place."

Hiding her surprise, Megan resorted to glibness. "Hi Christine. There's something… different about you. Did you do something different with your hair?" Shrinking under her glare, Megan apologized. "Sorry. I'm just happy to see familiar faces again. Loneliness is my worst enemy. You can talk!"

"I needed to use Vera's Auto-Doc when we first arrived, after a scuffle with some Ghosts went badly. It fixed my injuries, and it also replaced my vocal chords with an exact duplicate of hers. I still don't know if I  _could_  sing, but… I guess I have the raw ability to do so now. The right pitch or timbre or whatever." She stopped herself with visible effort and took an armchair opposite the sofa. "Now that I  _can_ , I need to talk to you."

Megan stood up. "And that sounds great, but first I need to wash and change. How are we set up for water? And food?"

"There's a bathroom with a functional shower in the master bedroom." Veronica pointed. "I don't know where it's coming from, but hot or cold, it comes when you twist the knobs. Through  _that_  way is a kitchen with enough packaged food for about a hundred years. Vera - the woman who was trapped in here - didn't eat much it."

A shower was a luxury that she knew she might not see again for a long time. She made the most of it, washing herself, her clothes, and her armor, experimenting with a variety of perfumed soaps and sprays that she found on the vanity. They smelled much better than the lye soap she and everybody else in the wasteland was accustomed to. When she was done, she hung everything up to dry and ransacked the bedroom in search of something to wear. These luxurious accommodations had everything, it seemed.

"These are literally the most comfortable clothes I've ever worn," Megan said happily a few minutes later. "And they fit really well. I might steal some to take home." Vera had been slightly taller, she decided, but no bigger. In a bureau outside the bathroom, she'd found a set of silk pajamas and now she couldn't stop stroking the fabric, enjoying the feel of it on her skin. "There were some nice dresses in that closet, Veronica."

"They don't fit me," she said shortly. "That starlet was a skinny twig. Now that you're here, we need to decide what to do."

"Sure, sure… hey, so who  _was_  this lady, anyway? Someone pretty important, I'd guess, to merit this kind of VIP treatment."

" _Focus_ ," Christine told her sternly. "We may be safe here - for the time being - but there are three loose ends we need to see to as a team: the mutant, the ghoul, and, of course, Elijah himself. Without the Pip-Boy, we won't know how to unlock the other parts of the casino at all, so the ghoul is the primary target."

Sobering at the reminder, Megan nodded. "Have you not seen God at all? He  _said_  he was going to get help, but then he never came back. I'm worried about him."

"No, we haven't," Veronica affirmed. "Nor Domino either. It's just been us, the Ghosts, and the holograms. Not that we've explored much, other than the suites. If you hadn't shown up, we would have tried tomorrow."

Remembering the lobby, and the posters she'd seen advertising the Gala's main performer, Megan thought she knew where Dean had gone as soon as he'd set foot in the casino. Once she had the Pip-Boy again, finding God wouldn't be a problem.

"It's nighttime, right?" Megan asked. Christine nodded. "Then let's sleep on it, and tomorrow we'll go to the theater. I'll bet anything that's where we'll find our ghoul… or what's left of him. The vain old bastard probably got stuck there."

Veronica left, muttering something about taking a bath, but Christine remained behind. "I met a man named Ulysses some time ago, in a place called Big MT, the location I'd tracked Elijah to. We talked a lot. Even then, he was obsessed with arranging a meeting with another courier. That would be you, right?"

"Yeah. He's made a couple of attempts to reel me in. The last one had a personal touch - he killed a friend in front of me, someone he'd never met. Just to get my attention."

Christine winced. "Ulysses was passionate for answers. On a quest for big picture solutions. His discourse was thoughtful and intelligent, if a little grandiose. I never thought he was  _brutal_. Capable, yes, but not a senseless murderer."

"What did he want with me? Other than a meeting?"

"You don't know? He said you'd walked the same roads as he had." She frowned. "I'm not sure if that was a metaphor or not. It was hard to tell with him."

"The only reason I even know I used to be a courier is that I had a piece of paper to that effect among my possessions. I don't know what I did to cross him."  _Though I know what uniform I was wearing when I did it_ , she thought darkly. "Please, Christine. Tell me everything you know about Ulysses. His weaknesses, his interests, his plans. I want to survive this encounter."

Christine spoke for an hour or more, as if happy to have an excuse to use her new voice. Megan learned about a side of Ulysses that was educated and capable and intensely interested in the credos of different factions - including the Brotherhood of Steel.

"He didn't like my answers," Christine said. "Called us backwards. Said we had no more future than the NCR or the Legion. I liked talking to him - and there was no one else there worth talking to - but he was frustrating."

Megan was disappointed. "There's nothing else you can tell me about why he was focused on me?"

"He said  _one_  thing that stuck in my mind..." she screwed up her face, trying to remember. "He said he had a message for the Courier, but first he wanted to 'make them walk the road west… sink their feet in Old World ash. Let storms tear at them. See the Divide. See what happened.'"

"See what happened," Megan echoed. "Alright. I'll do that. And then I'll kill him."  _Before he give me his message_ , she promised herself.

Christine looked away, her tone regretful. "If you have to. You're probably in the right. I owe Ulysses my life, but I always felt he was a few more disappointments away from going mad."

* * *

The casino was a much less intimidating place with company.

"Speakers, speakers, lots of speakers. That's you out, Christine. You can't get close to them. Stay back here." Veronica had volunteered to creep inside the theatre for reconnaissance and was reporting back to the others. "The holograms are dormant, but they won't be for long if we're not careful."

Christine's eyes flashed. "The ghoul put me inside that Auto-Doc. I remember that now. I deserve to confront him."

"Well, let us lead, then. We'll eliminate the speakers and maybe the holograms as well. Then you can come in."

"He tried to  _kill_  me," Megan pointed out. "Don't I get a shot?"

Christine shrugged unhappily. "If that's how it works out. I just want him dead."

As it worked out, the job was easier - and more anticlimactic - than any of them had anticipated. Megan and Christine hung back while Veronica wormed her way through the empty audience to a table in front of the orchestra pit. She claimed she could see a key there, and no one felt like contradicting her. As soon as she came near, however, the holograms still inert and facing the other way, Dean popped out of a crow's nest overlooking the stage.

"Well, if it isn't the superfluous bitch. I've been  _waiting-_ "

That was as far as he got before Christine took off his head from the back of the auditorium. By lucky happenstance, his body fell forward instead of backwards, leaving a bloody mess on the once-polished boards. Veronica collected what they might need from the body, including the Pip-Boy, and returned without ever going backstage. All three of them retreated from the room before the beeping could wind down once more, the lead-lined doors cutting off the signal once and for all. Whatever Dean had wanted, whatever his game was, it died with him. No one was sorry.

Disappointed that she wouldn't have the chance to see the look of dawning horror on Dean's face, Megan was still glad that no one had been hurt. "That was easy. Y'all should have done that  _days_  ago," she observed, taking her device back happily and checking it for damage. It seemed that the ghoul had turned off the sound entirely, blocking whatever abuse or verbal instructions Elijah might have had for their team on the inside. She didn't see any reason to change this, since the map markers for the remaining collars were still working just fine. "Let's go check on God."

Following the marker on her Pip-Boy led them past the silent guardians of the casino. Veronica smashed one of the projectors with her bear-trap fist, but the others were far enough away that they could safely ignore them. Through the bar, up the stairs, past  _more_  holograms, and they reached their destination: the kitchen. From behind the heavy door, which stood slightly ajar, they could hear the sounds of a creature in terrible pain.

_Oh no_. Megan put out a hand to stop the other two. "It's God. Or possibly Dog. He's in trouble. Hurt or having a psychotic break. I need to go coax him out. Alone."

Veronica stepped back apprehensively. "There's a bad gas leak in there," she warned, stating the obvious. They had smelled it, even coming up the stairs from the bar.

"Yeah. I also need to turn that off. Stay clear. Christine, you stay  _very_  clear, just in case he kills me. There's no need for either of you to be close, although if it does blow, being farther away probably won't help. You two can go work on disabling the remaining security. See if you can find any terminals in the offices back there."

"All this for a mutant…" Veronica grumbled.

Megan ignored her. She laid down her pistol and bag in the hallway, and stepped through the door. She turned the first valve off with difficulty, but the air already shimmered with the volatile gas. The mutant hadn't noticed her yet. He was hunched in the middle of the room, tearing at himself with his broad nails, and murmuring a stream of gibberish. The second valve turned more easily, but Megan was beginning to worry. The air shimmered with the fumes and breathing the mix was already affecting her concentration. The last valve brought her very close to the mutant, but he seemed not to notice her. The valve wouldn't turn - a strong hand had deformed the switch, and it wouldn't budge. She tried covering the opening with her gloved hand, slowing but not stopping the rush of cold, compressed gas.

"God," she started, fumbling for a clear head, "I need your help. Your strength. To clamp this shut. So we can talk."

His only answer was a howl of despair, but he did turn to face her, which she found promising. His face was rough and hard to read, but he looked awful all the same. New, self-inflicted wounds criss-crossed the flesh in reach of his bloody hands.

"Are you Dog or God?" she whispered. "Either way, I can help you. I could use your help first, though." When he didn't move, she looked around for something that she could use to patch the hole or force the valve closed. She spotted a roll of duct tape and used this to secure a wadded up washcloth against the hole, stopping the majority of the leak. After that, she sank down to the ground, head spinning. The air was better on the floor anyway, and she theorized that this position made her seem like less of a threat to the confused mutant.

"The Voice is  _hurting_  me," he mewled, threatening to claw through his own thick skull. "Make it stop. Make it go away."

He - Dog - sounded so pitiful, that she wanted to hug him, try to sooth the hurt away. She reminded herself in time that he was dangerous, very dangerous, in this enclosed space. The wreck he had made of the kitchen testified to that. One swing of those massive arms, and she'd be dead whether he meant to hurt her or not.

"Dog. Dear Dog. You're hungry, aren't you? Hungry and tired. Wouldn't you like some food?" Megan could see a walk-in meat locker behind him. He wouldn't turn up his nose at two centuries of freezer-burn.

But this only agitated him further. He scooped up and threw a toaster in her general direction. It sailed high over her head, but made her jump. "No, no, no! Hunger keeps him away. Pain keeps him away. Dog  _can't_  eat anymore. Not ever again. Would rather starve."

Megan moved back a few feet and tried again. "I've met the Voice, Dog. He wants to talk. Meet you mid-way." Whether this was true or not, she didn't care. God  _should_ want to reconcile with this half of himself. "Can you come to the table?"

"Don't have a table," he grumbled. "Not here."

She sighed. "It's not a  _real_  table." The burnished steel of a dishwasher door, lying on the floor nearby, caught her eye. Dog had torn it from its hinges, but it still gleamed like a mirror. "Look there, Dog. He's not going to hurt you. You don't have to hurt him. Talk."

_You're not a diplomat_ , she reminded herself.  _You're really not_. She had failed with the Khans, only sort of succeeded with the Kings, and, between the Brotherhood and the NCR, had ended up with two  _new_  enemies instead of allies. But as an intermediary between two broken creatures, she thought she was doing alright. It would work because some part of Dog  _and_ God wanted to be done with this. It  _had_ to.

He paced and growled and wept. Once, he threw the impromptu mirror across the room, denting its surface. But, in a minute, he'd retrieved it and was back to glaring at his own image. She heard both voices now, answering one another. Much of what they had to say was hostile and much of it incomprehensible, but it  _was_  going somewhere. Megan wondered what Elijah had done to him - what he had forced Dog to do - that had brought him to this point. The Pip-Boy volume still sat on "mute." As far as she was concerned, it could stay that way. She couldn't stop the Old Man from eavesdropping, but he didn't deserve to be heard.

The dishwasher door slipped from his hands and the mutant sat heavily on the ground. "I… I thank you, human. He's never fought the transition so hard for so long before, and without you it might have cost more. I… no,  _we_  are so tired of this. I need to get him away from the Master's voice or we're both going to die here."

"I'm sorry, God. Thank you for holding him back from hurting me."

"Oh, that was all him. When he's not hungry, he genuinely likes you. When I see you through his eyes, that's the feeling that I get. Even though you've kept him in a cage most of the time. He's not  _smart_."

"Well, thank  _you_  for helping me before, then. Can I return the favor?"

It took a long time to treat God's many injuries, and Megan ended up using the remainder of her stimpaks on the worst of them. To fill the time, she caught him up on events, taking particular relish in relating Domino's swift execution. By the time she was done, both Veronica and Christine were waiting impatiently in the hallway, done with the work they'd needed to do in the vicinity.

"He caught me with an intercom last time," God said quietly. "In the lobby, right after I left you. I don't remember much after that. Think he had Dog take out a handful of Ghosts that had gotten in. Pull some switches. Press some buttons. Then… he he told Dog to kill himself. With one of those knives. Dog resisted, and good for him." He looked around the ruined kitchen and chuckled ruefully. "If all that gas  _had_  gone up, it would have blown a huge hole in the casino, disintegrating his entire scheme. I almost wish it had. Would have served the Old Man right."

Megan was quiet. "You can't go near him, can you? We'd lose you as soon as he opened his mouth. More than that, we'd gain a dangerous enemy."

"No." He was angry, but not at her. "I'm sorry. I wish I could help."

"It's alright. We'll kill him, the casino will open, and we'll all be free to leave. In theory," she muttered. "Stay here. Eat. Rest. Talk to Dog, if you can. And when you do get out… you remember where to go?"

"I've got the map in my head. Goodbye, human… and good luck dealing with the one who dragged us here. Shoot him twice for me."

* * *

"Let's get a few hours of rest, ladies," Megan said to the other two as they once again reached Vera's suite in safely. "Then we can take the final step - using your voice to speak the password, Christine, just like Dean's instructions said - and be quit of this place. I can't wait to fit three people into the landspeeder." She noticed a look pass between them and asked, "What is it?"

"I'm not leaving the Sierra Madre," Christine explained. "Not until I  _know_  this tech is permanently out of reach."

"You could probably just blow it up," Megan pointed out. "God almost did the job for you. By accident."

"That's what  _I_  tried to tell her," Veronica burst out. "She wants to punish herself for letting Elijah get this far."

"What I want," Christine said serenely, "is to carry out my mission. The Brotherhood's mission. No one will come to harm from the dangerous parts of what's here; maybe, someday, someone can benefit from the good."

"Honey, you're not thinking clearly. You can't even  _read_ , how are you going to do anything?"

"I've made my decision, Veronica." From the weary finality in her tone, Megan could tell that they had already discussed this at length. Veronica apparently wasn't ready to concede defeat, however.

"Christine the martyr! Christine the suffering saint! If you would just  _once_  think of your own happiness…"

Megan backed hastily out of the room. Another precious shower, a meal, and some sleep, and she'd be ready to face Elijah. She didn't need to be caught up in Veronica's drama. Even behind two sets of closed doors, however, she could still hear the shouting. It went on for a long time.

Eight hours later, Megan shuffled out of the living room once again, only to find Veronica and Christine glaring at each other with red-rimmed eyes.

"Did you sleep at all, Veronica? Today's not going to be easy."

Christine answered for her. "No. She didn't. She wanted to  _talk_."

"Well. We still have adrenaline. The come-down is exhausting, though. Save it for emergencies." She herself felt  _good_  and it was hard to feel sympathetic to the other's pain. She was so close to escaping now that she couldn't restrain herself from celebrating. "Seriously, though, I'm going to need your help, so get it together."

Getting to the vault wasn't as easy as walking down a set of stairs or taking an elevator. No. The descent was maze-like and full of hazards. It took hours to carefully evade or disable the security on each successive level, and near the bottom they began to encounter thick pockets of the toxic Cloud. Unfortunately, the journey required Veronica's constant cooperation and expertise, which she provided with all the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner. Still, Megan doubted she could have done it alone. At long last, they reached the vault.

Elijah's voice leapt onto the speaker near the entrance as soon as they set foot inside, crackling with fury and impatience. "...freeze me out, will you? Think you can take it for your  _own_? Think again. You couldn't hold it even if you tried."

"We're here, Elijah," Veronica said in a hollow, dead sort of voice. "We did what you wanted. The way is open."

"That's right," he acceded, slightly calmer now. "You did it. You're in the vault. After all this time… the Sierra Madre… it's  _mine_. Don't touch anything, Veronica. Don't let that moron beside you try any tricks. I'm coming down now." And he was gone.

"He's almost certainly planning to kill you with the help of the turrets in that room." Christine had taken possession of the speaker now, sounding thin and faraway. "But I've disabled them. A few more minutes, and I think I can have the forcefields under my control as well. It won't be soon enough to stop him from reaching you."

"Thanks," Megan said for both of them, after waiting a moment for Veronica to respond. "We'll be ready."

"Don't underestimate him. Kill him for me, one of you." With that final admonition, she was gone, leaving Megan and Veronica alone in the vault.

"We should go," Megan said, running an admiring hand over the treasure stacked neatly on the table. "Get into position. Ambush him coming out."

"Yeah." Veronica didn't move. She was still staring at the intercom.

"I need your help," she reminded the scribe again. "Please. You got me into this. You owe me some diligence here."

"I thought she'd change her mind," Veronica mumbled. "I thought we'd be leaving together."

"I, for one, would rather have Christine here as well. But I've got you." Out of time and patience, Megan grabbed her by the forearm and pulled her out, taking cover behind a large pylon in the middle of the room. Veronica offered no resistance, but made no move to prepare her gun for the shot. "He'll kill you too, you know," she reminded Veronica. "If you doubt it, you're a fool. It doesn't matter who you are. He never had any intention of letting any of us go."

She shook her head mulishly. "No. He used t' say I was like a daughter to him. He wouldn't hurt me."

"He already  _did_." Megan heard a sound from the entryway ahead and dropped her voice to a whisper. "He's an abusive, sadistic S.O.B. with a god complex. He'll kill us and then he'll move on to Christine. It won't matter that she's locked in her tower. Not if he takes control of all the security systems." Fifty feet away, across the dark room, the glowing forcefield dropped and a tall figure slipped into the shadows. "I can't shoot for shit, Veronica. Wake up!" The scribe didn't move.

Giving up, Megan left her there; she was still mumbling about how Elijah "wasn't all that bad." She would have taken Veronica's rifle if she had thought it would help at all, but the pistol was more her style. She reminded herself that Elijah was an old man, but didn't find this particularly reassuring. He had survived Big MT, the Sierra Madre, and who knows what else for a reason. He was clever. He was a zealous maniac. He could probably see better than she could and he was certainly better armed. Taking into account the fact that she needed to be less than 15 feet away from him to have a chance at hitting her target, and all this added up to a bad situation.

Megan crept from cover to cover, trying to find her target again. He could have gone high, but she didn't dare attempt to climb the scaffolding herself. She would be a sitting duck on those stairs. She would have tried to make for the doorway from which he had come, but the forcefield was already back.

Her backpack was too heavy and badly balanced with some of the extra loot she'd crammed into it - Why, oh  _why_ hadn't she taken it off? - and it shifted when she rose to sprint to new cover, throwing her off balance. And not a second too soon. The bolt of energy that had intended to lead her instead struck the metal floor some feet ahead, sending her scurrying to put something - anything - between her and his crosshairs. The large, open space surrounding the vault entrance was dimly-lit, but it was also open and exposed. Cover from a bird's eye view was hard to find.

She crawled under a large, spidery generator-thing, dragging her lumpy bag after her, and flinched as more fire rained down on her position. For now, the cage of metal and wires above her was shielding her, but that would last only so long. Shooting back would have been nice, but it would literally be a shot in the dark. The smell of ozone, hot metal, and her own fear-sweat filled her nostrils, and she prepared for another sprint - back to the vault. She'd be trapped like a rat in a trap there, but at least she'd die standing. Before she could move, however, the forgotten factor stepped up, sounding surprisingly strong.

"Elijah, stop this. You got what you wanted. You can let us go."

The rain of lasers from above ceased. "Veronica?" There was surprise in his voice, though Megan didn't know why. Hadn't he been tracking them all this time? He should have known she was here. Perhaps he was finally confronting the reality that he had brought his former protege here to die. Cognitively, he had surely always known that, but maybe he still had the heart to be shocked at his own actions; maybe he could be manipulated by an emotional appeal.

Veronica seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Or maybe she was just having a breakdown. The anguish in her reply sounded real enough. "Yes,  _me_. Remember? The kid who used to bring you toys to fix. You helped me pick a specialty, helped me study for my engineering exams to become a scribe. You were the most important person in the  _world_  to me. You told me the Brotherhood had a place for me. I could have left when I was eighteen, but I didn't. All because of you."

"I was wrong, Veronica. Weren't you listening before? The Brotherhood is fallen and weak. I - you  _and_  I - can do better. Sweep away the old and bring a new world." His thin, old-man's voice bounced off the walls on the way down, echoing and making them sound grander than they were. Uneasy in the presence of crazy, Megan shivered in her crawlspace, wondering if she should run while he was distracted. No. He was probably a good multitasker. He would just shoot her and keep on talking. She stayed where she was, praying that Veronica wouldn't buy his bullshit.

Boots sending little tremors through the floor, Veronica walked past Megan's hiding place, so close that she could have reached out and grabbed the woman's ankle. The scribe stopped and stood squarely in front of her, blocking Elijah's next shot with her own body, whether she meant to or not. Like a good student, she went on asking her teacher questions, "How would this work? Can you explain? What people would you populate your world with?"

" _People_ ," he almost spat. "We don't need people. Don't you understand yet, Veronica? People are why this world is the way it is. I was wrong to discourage your little friendships when you were younger. Women like you have the right idea. No new generations. No more polluting presence on this glorious earth…"

Megan didn't see her raise the gun - she wondered later why  _Elijah_ hadn't seen it coming - but Veronica took the shot, using the holorifle that she'd carried down from the suite. Megan still hadn't spotted her target, high up on the catwalk, but Veronica apparently knew what she was aiming at. Elijah's monologue cut off mid-sentence and, once the distorted reverberations of the shot faded away, there was no sound at all except for the snuffling sounds of Veronica's crying. Megan waited a long moment, but there were no more words, and no answering gunfire.

"Did you kill him?" she asked. "Thank you for that. Really."

"Shut  _up_. Don't talk to me." Veronica half-turned, swinging the barrel of the gun around as well, as if she was considering using it again. "I didn't do it for  _you_."

Megan took that as a "all clear," and crawled out, feeling as light as air. While Veronica stalked off, presumably to examine the body high above, she went back to the intercom inside the vault. "Good news, Christine. Veronica killed Elijah."

There was a pause. "Damn. I was hoping you would be the one to do it. Is she okay?"

Megan heard genuine concern there, something that had been missing in her strident and purposeful brush-offs before. "I don't know. I seriously doubt it. When she comes back down, that would be a  _great_ time to say something nice to her. I know you don't feel the same, but you could throw the poor girl a bone."

Christine sighed. "Yes. I know." There was a pause. "Since I'm committed to staying here, can you tell me your secret now?"

Giddy with relief, Megan threw caution to the wind. "Oh. Well. I guess so. The NCR and the Brotherhood kind of think I'm Enclave."

" _Are_  you?" The little speaker rattled with the shouted question.

"I used to be. I'm not anymore. As far as I know, there  _is_  no Enclave to belong to. Not anymore. Veronica knows, by the way. Has known for a while. You're not going to hunt me down and kill me now, are you?" She mentally decided, then and there, not to tell Arcade this part. He might get mad.

Instead of answering the question, the assassin asked one of her own, "Are you actually an idiot?"

"I can't say. Some people certainly think so. They might be right. Me, I think I'm just selectively honest."

There was another lengthy sigh. "...No."

"No what?"

"No, I'm  _probably_  not going to kill you. Assuming the Brotherhood ever gives me another assignment after this debacle, I'll pass on your contract if it comes to me. Just… stay out of our way from now on. For everybody's sake."

Megan smiled. Veronica was coming down, carrying a fancy new gun. "Thanks. Here she comes. I'll let her give you the news."

The escape took longer, and demanded more effort than either of them had expected. There was the climb back to the surface level, another messy encounter with the Ghosts in the plaza near their exit, and finally, a landspeeder to prep for departure and belongings to retrieve from the service entrance. Megan searched, but found no trace of God, though the doors of the casino were thrown wide. Veronica was sleepwalking for all of this, going through the motions as if she was drunk. The epinephrine helped, but only temporarily. By the time they were loaded up and ready to move, she was in no condition to offer resistance when Megan insisted that she be the one to drive.

* * *

"The end," Megan announced unnecessarily, having brought the landspeeder to a crumpled halt in front of Arcade once again. Reaching into her bag for the last time, she lifted out another object, using one hand that trembled under the weight. "Behold," she said with theatrical intonations, "the treasure of the Sierra Madre." She offered Arcade the gold brick, but when he made no move to accept it, she set it down on the table with a loud  _clunk_. "It's really fucking heavy. There were about a hundred more of these, but I could only carry one. And that was pushing it. It's a pity God wasn't there at the end..."

" _That's_  what Elijah was after? Gold bullion?" Arcade was dazzled by the sight of the lustrous metal, but he knew that it had lost most of its value with the collapse of civilization. He had trouble imagining the crazed Brotherhood elder moving heaven and earth for mere material wealth. It seemed so pedestrian.

Megan shook her head. "No. Didn't I explain that already? The  _real_  treasure was the holographic technology that Christine stayed behind to neutralize. He meant to scatter Sinclair's dragon-teeth in the desert and raise up an army to 'cleanse the land.' I  _think_. I kind of tuned out for his monologue."

"So, his end game…"

"Was another apocalypse. I guess. He was a clever old fox, but he was crazy going into that place. And the Sierra Madre doesn't fix anybody's problems. It just amplifies them. I saw a lot of evidence for that this week."

"Actually,  _you_  seem positively well-adjusted today."

"Well,  _I_  didn't want anything except to get home. Though if anybody won, it was me. Sort of. Insofar as it was a game, which it really wasn't." She shrugged. "I liked who I was there, which was nobody important. A third wheel. Like I said before, it was a nice break."

"Alright," he began at last, having taken a moment to digest this. "I do have some follow-up questions, but they can wait. Go get your lunch. I'll make sure Veronica wakes up soon." She turned to go, and he called after her, "Are you up for a walk to Freeside with me tomorrow?"

She smiled. "Anywhere with you. What's in Freeside?"

"Your birthday present. A little late, since I was gone."

"Aw, you remembered. And I didn't even get you anything this year. What is it?"

"You'll see. And it's alright. You were pretty busy in May, if I recall correctly. I also need to go to the Strip to talk to Ignacio, and you should consider being there for that conversation."

She looked doubtful. "Should I?"

"Yes. It concerns you too."

With her hand on the door, she turned back to Arcade one last time. "If Veronica does wake up while I'm gone, please be kind to her for my sake. She saved my life yesterday. She didn't have to do that at all."

"Even though you wouldn't have been in any danger at all if it weren't for her?" Arcade wasn't averse to mercy, particularly not to heartbroken young women. He just wasn't used to seeing it from Megan.

"Yeah." She scratched her head, embarrassed. "Veronica's a hot mess. I've been there. I want to give her a chance to get back on her feet. While I'm out, I'm going to stop by the hotel right now to pre-pay a week's rent for her." Uncertain now, she added, "Don't you think that's the right thing to do?"

"I do."  _I'm just surprised_ , he thought.  _Pleasantly so._

With Megan gone, the house was quiet. Arcade lingered over his cold tea, hefting the gold bar experimentally and staring into the depths of the snowglobe, trying to imagine the prison that his friend had described, and the paranoid brilliance that had constructed it as insurance against the end of the world. A soft noise behind him made him turn.

"Is she gone?" Veronica mumbled, peering into the room. Hollow-eyed and ragged, she looked as if eighteen hours of sleep had only scratched the surface of the rest she needed.

"Yes. Would you like something to eat?" Without waiting for an answer, he got the cold leftovers from last night's dinner out and put them in front of her, along with a glass of water.

"Thanks." She ate steadily, but without much interest.

"You have to move to the hotel after this, I'm afraid. Our host here is a longtime friend of mine, but he has no love for the Brotherhood of Steel." Daisy would disapprove, but wouldn't say anything if Arcade was willing to tolerate Veronica. Judah was a different story. He had lost most of his passion over the years, but he still found room for anger when it came to the group he blamed for the Enclave's destruction.

"I wouldn't want to stay in a house full of  _you people_  anyway." She said this with a dreamlike air, as if unaware that she was biting the hand that was feeding her.

Arcade let it slide. The Enclave deserved that shot and worse, and he was secure enough not take it personally. "What are you going to do now?"

Veronica shook her head. "I don't know. Avoid the patrol sent out to catch me, I guess. I was thinking I would fix the speeder and leave it out in the desert with a beacon on it. Give 'em what they want. Maybe… then..." She appeared to lose interest in speaking halfway through this thought and fell silent, looking down at her hands.

He gave her a moment to reflect, and then asked, wondering as he did so if he would live to regret it, "With the caveat that  _I_  don't get to make the final call, would you be interested in joining a scientific expedition with the Followers of the Apocalypse next month?"


	7. Book II: The Beginning of the End

"Not sure I'll be back this way again. I just wanted to stop by. To say goodbye. And… yeah." Megan scuffed at the dry dirt with her boots, noticing that six months - had it  _really_  been that long already? - had been enough time for the tough desert grasses to reclaim the ground where Raul's body lay. It had even overgrown the rocks that Boone had placed over the grave against the coyotes' predations. She had made the ghoul's abandoned ranch an obligatory stop on her half-hearted "farewell tour" of the Mojave, but now that she was here, she didn't know what to say or do.

"I wanted to put up some sort of marker," she told the lonely spot, trying to believe that he was, in some sense, there to talk to. "But since neither me nor Lily can  _write_ , the best I could do was to etch an 'R' into that rock over there. We both think it's 'A' that comes next, but don't know how to finish it. I'm sorry. You deserved better. A lotta people did."

She sat on the edge and let the tears fall. They blurred and doubled her vision, making it seem like there wasn't just one grave, but many.  _There might as well be_ , she thought.  _Almost everyone I've broken bread with is either dead or hates me now_. Boone had ended up in the NCR cemetery by the sharecroppers' farm; the Followers had made Johnson's body disappear before Colonel Moore could seize it as evidence; Novac… well, Novac was a graveyard in its own right. All of these fell on her, followed her around wherever she went.

She tried again to talk to the air, willing herself to believe that he could hear. "Got no one to speak Spanish with anymore. I needed you around to keep that part of me alive.  _Voy a olvidarlo_."

Driven by a longing for happier times, she and Lily had travelled all the way down to Primm two days prior. It was a long walk, but not terribly dangerous these days. Not now that the caravans were running consistently, no longer threatened by Powder Gangers, deathclaws, or Legion. She had hoped to visit the Nashes, to eat some of Ruby's cooking, and see if the couple needed anything. She hadn't even gotten two words out of her mouth before the old woman slammed the door on her, face twisted with fear and fury.

After that, Megan had lost the assurance of a warm welcome anywhere. Approached each new situation with more humility, hat in hand, working with the theory that If she kept her expectations low, she wouldn't be disappointed. This resolve hadn't made things easier in Goodsprings, however. Raul was the last on her list, and for that she was grateful. He would never hurt her; more to the point, he was beyond her ability to hurt.

"You never cared about my mistakes. You judged me by who I was becoming, not who I had been. And you still didn't think too badly of me. Thank you for that." She sniffed and wiped her eyes, accidentally smearing the lenses of her new glasses in the process. She still wasn't used to wearing them.

Thanks to a late birthday present - a precious gift coordinated for her by Arcade through a shamefaced Julie Farkas - she could see pretty well now, with the lenses compensating for her poor left-side vision and improving the right as well. In the words of the itinerant optometrist who had assessed her, it was "as close to twenty-twenty" as she was going to get. She couldn't complain. For the first time in her memory, she had depth perception. Two eyes that worked together. Whether it would eventually improve her shooting remained to be seen; old habits die hard, and she was so used to shooting one-eyed that she still hadn't gotten into the habit of using her new abilities to her advantage.

Leaving her empty goodbyes behind her, she clambered down the steep ridge on her descent from the gravesite. This simple act gave her another reason to be grateful, even if she couldn't appreciate it right now - her body didn't hurt, or at least no more than it should after a couple of days of hard travel. Physically, she was in the best shape she'd been in for a long time. An experimental spin through Vera Keyes' personal Auto-Doc back at the Sierra Madre had done more to resolve the long-term effects of injury than months of natural healing had. If only Freeside's doctors could take possession of that tech… but no. The Sierra Madre was closed for business.

As a joke, their first week back, Megan had thanked Veronica for taking her on such a rejuvenating holiday. She hadn't been entirely insincere - the trip  _had_  done her good - but Veronica had taken it badly, just as she took everything else badly these days. Perhaps she had thought that the comment was entirely sarcastic. While the former scribe was satisfied - for now - to work with Ignacio Rivas and his team as they prepared to leave for the Divide, she felt no particular obligation to be pleasant, least of all to Megan. For the most part, except for lending a hand in gathering supplies (protective gear, food, and medicine), Megan avoided the endless planning. She - much more than Arcade, or even Veronica - was an outsider among them, uncultured, unlettered, and strange. They might be travelling the same road for the time being, for the sake of safety and convenience, but she wouldn't ever be one of them. She hadn't even learned their names yet.

* * *

They left the ranch in the early afternoon, not wanting to spend another night in a musty a shack that looked much the worse for being so long uninhabited. As they drew near to the city, Megan dismissed Lily north to Westside with a word of thanks. Mutants were not a common enough sight in Freeside to risk bringing her there. Besides, Megan had a stop that she wanted to make on her own: the New Vegas Clinic. It was late, and she hoped to find it empty. Sure enough, there were no patients waiting in the lobby, but there wasn't a doctor either.

"She's back there." The guard glanced up at her and jerked his head toward the door, before going back to his magazine.

Megan walked slowly down the hallway, dragging her feet now that she was here. She didn't know what she wanted from Dr. Usanagi. A sympathetic ear, she supposed - someone who was detached enough to give good advice. Someone who could help her take the alienation she felt and put it into a form she could handle. Even with the wedge driven between him and the Followers, Arcade still thought highly of the woman. Megan hadn't yet gotten a chance to thank her for trying to protect her from the NCR soldiers who'd taken her into custody. That was reason enough to visit unannounced, she decided.

The doctor's office was empty, but she could hear noises coming from the meeting room next door. Forgetting to knock, she pushed the door open and stopped, confused. There were a  _lot_ of people in there. A lot of women, seated on chairs, stools, and crates. One of them - a hard-faced woman with a necklace of scar tissue, as if someone had once tried to garrote her and failed - had been speaking, but fell silent at the intrusion.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know it was group night," she said stupidly. Megan couldn't remember what night that usually fell on, or what day of the week it was anyway. "I'll go."

If Dr. Usanagi was surprised, she did a good job of hiding it. The small woman smiled and beckoned her in from across the room. "You're welcome to stay if you want, Megan. Go on, Lydia."

Megan wavered, but ended up slipping into a spot in the corner near the door, glad to have the chance to sit down. She noticed Betsy frowning at her from her position on the other side, and flinched. Though they had been friendly before, she didn't know how favorably disposed the sniper would be to her, after everything that had happened. She refused to meet the soldier's eyes and focused on listening instead.

Lydia went on talking, but it wasn't about her own story. "I don't think  _she_  should be here. What does she know about what we go through every day? It's not like people like her get knocked around by their pimps or raped by their husbands. And that woman in particular is trouble. She's not someone we want here."

Two others - dark-haired girls who had to have been sisters - got up furtively to leave, shooting scared looks in her direction. Painfully conscious of being unwelcome, Megan reached the door ahead of them, making them shrink back into the crowd.

Disgusted and tired, she mumbled to the room, "Never mind. I just wanted a place to get warm. Carry on, all. I'm leaving."

A few people - the doctor among them - called out after her, but she didn't stop. The cold outside hit her like a slap in the face. It stung to be shunned in a place she thought she'd be welcome - for the third time this week, too. Living in the standoffish, live-and-let-live haven of Westside, she had forgotten that everybody else had longer memories. That no one had really accepted the verdict handed down by the NCR, not even the NCR.

"You reap what you sow, I guess." Hadn't Doc said more or less the same thing?  _That_  encounter had been the worst so far. The Goodsprings doctor had been neutral - or so she had thought. Someone who'd known her from the beginning. She'd gone in armed with a smile and a dead gecko, thinking that everything could be the way it was before, if only for a few hours. She'd been wrong.

* * *

Walking north from Primm and her failed attempt to visit the Nashes, determinedly thinking of nothing at all while Lily prattled on about her grandchildren, occupied the entire afternoon. It took her longer than expected to run down a gecko near Goodsprings, and longer still to divest it of its organs and blood. It was almost dark before she knocked on Doc Mitchell's door, all alone now. She waited impatiently, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, swinging her offering in one hand. She imagined him standing, popping his back, and shuffling slowly to the front of the house. When he finally opened the door to her, she had her smile and her greeting ready.

"Hiya! Dinner? For old time's sake?" It had been almost a year since she and Boone had come through Goodsprings for the last time, and she had no idea what her one-time savior thought about her now. They'd been close once - that is, until Arcade's arrival had given her an escape from the tiny town. Everything that had followed from that departure had seemed out of her control, a landslide growing from inconsequential beginnings. There was a chasm between her and the old man now, and she wanted his permission to cross it, if only for a short time. "Please," she said, much more quietly. "I've come a long way."

Doc Mitchell stood in silence for a long time, jaw clenched and lips pursed as he assessed her. Without any spoken acknowledgement, he stepped back and turned away to allow her entrance into the house. She followed him, noticing that his limp had gotten worse since she'd seen him last.

"Make sure the door latches behind you," he said by way of greeting. Some essential quality was missing from his voice. The warmth she had expected - had  _hoped_  for - was gone. Still, she allowed herself to hope that he'd hear her out.

Doc's house - the first home she'd ever known - had become small, dark, and depressing in her absence. Megan struggled to find something positive to say. "So y'all came through the Legion advance okay? I noticed the town's still standing."

"We're fine," he said shortly. "Rangers gave us plenty of warning. E'rybody retreated to those coyote caves in the hills. Easy Pete died while we were camping out in there, but I think it was mostly just his time."

"I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I haven't come by sooner to check on the place. I've been… busy. A lot of fighting. I kind of lived a soldier's life for a while - or maybe a mercenary's life would be more accurate." She laughed weakly. "Anyway, it was all a lot more violent than what goes on here."

"So I've heard." He lowered himself into a kitchen chair with a groan. "I've heard a lot of things, actually. Heard you died, heard you got thrown into prison, heard you flew away on a vertibird, never to be seen from again. Rumors abound with you. Care to tell me what's true?"

"Well," she began, setting the gecko in the sink and prepared to cut some nice flank from its sides. "I tried to run, but didn't make it. I didn't  _stay_ in prison. And I obviously didn't die. No thanks to Colonel Moore and her men."

"Last time I heard your name, some NCR thugs were beating down my door for medical evidence. For your trial. Wanted me to sign an affidavit that you were  _compos mentis_  and all that crap. Wanted to know if your brain injury was as bad as you claimed. Pretty shocking to learn that I'd aided and abetted a  _war criminal_. Guess I should count myself lucky that they didn't take me in too."

 _There_. It was out in the open now. "You had no way of knowing who I was. Back then, neither did I. You were just doing what you were supposed to - saving someone's life. I appreciated it. I still do." Her hands were shaking and she accidentally cut her thumb with the knife. Pressing it to the corner of her dirty bandana to stop the bleeding, she turned to meet his eyes. "Even if you  _had_  known, you wouldn't have let me die... right?" Her voice squeaked involuntarily on this last word, tiny and scared. Just like a child's. She hated how much was hanging on his answers.

His reply came quick, uncharacteristically harsh. "Maybe not. But I wouldn't have given you house room for four months neither."

Now that his feelings were out in the open, Megan found that she had preferred not knowing. She tried to continue as if it didn't matter, calm and matter-of-fact. "Fair enough. If it helps - at all - I think I'm a different person now than I was before. I don't have much to compare myself with. A few anecdotes, dreams, fragmented memories is all I have to go on. As far as I'm concerned, that other girl was a stranger who probably deserved to get shot in the head."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid." He cleared his throat. "You travelling alone?"

"Not quite. I left my companion - a friendly mutant - back at the trailer by the springs. For her safety, mostly." It wasn't just that. Lily made almost every situation more awkward. Making the decision to leave her behind with a campfire and her own gecko had been an easy one.

"Where's that soldier you were with before? Where's Dr. Gannon? Couldn't they handle the new you?"

"Arcade and I are fine. He's in Vegas right now, working with some old friends." She ducked her head. "Boone… is dead. Someone with a vendetta against me killed him last summer. We weren't always on good terms, but it wasn't because of my past. He only ever had one enemy, and it wasn't the Enclave."

He sighed. "Sorry to hear about the boy. He should've stayed clear of you. And as for Gannon, I'm surprised a Followers doctor could look the other way about that sort of thing. He always seemed like such a principled fellow."

"It's complicated," she said, as she turned back to the meat, needing something to occupy her hands with. "Led to some problems at first, but we figured it out in the end."

"Just leave it," he snapped. Controlling himself with an effort, he said in a relatively level, "I've already eaten, and gecko meat gives me indigestion anyway. This - all of it - isn't something a peace offering can smooth over. Why  _did_  you come back here?"

"I wanted to know if I still had a friend here," she said in a small voice. "I wanted to say goodbye."

"You're going somewhere?" he asked blankly, ignoring her first statement altogether.

"West. East. Anywhere but here. My life has been on a downhill course for most of the last year and a half. I wanna try something new."

"Tryin' something new's what got you into trouble. You should have never left. If you had stayed…  _maybe_  the NCR could have done the dirty work without you. Maybe you'd still be you." There was a new note in his voice - it almost sounded like grief - and for a moment Megan hoped that he was softening toward her. But it wasn't meant to be.

They talked - or tried to talk - for another half-hour, going around in circles about what she'd done or hadn't done. When they ran out of words, having gotten nowhere, he stood up and showed Megan and her half-skinned gecko the door. His anger had eventually faded away, but the coldness remained. If he'd missed her - and she suspected he had - it wasn't enough to counter the judgment in the months since the trial.

Left alone in the dark, Megan didn't even try to go to the saloon. She could do without Trudy and Sunny giving her the same treatment, and would almost inevitably end up drinking, breaking things, or both. Anyway, Lily was waiting, she knew. Lily would never stop accepting her, no matter what she did. It was a little scary, having that kind of unconditional love to depend on, but she needed it right now.

Not until an hour or two later, while "Grandma" Lily was painting her nails by firelight and describing the  _correct_  way to make sourdough biscuits, did Megan realize that she was still wearing Doc Mitchell's Pip-Boy. He hadn't mentioned it, and she had worn it so long that she'd forgotten about it once being his. Should she give it back to him?

 _No_ , she decided, hardening her heart against this impulse. She needed it more than he ever would. And it had been a gift. A reminder of better times. She'd wear it to the ends of the earth. With gratitude.

* * *

After nightfall, the walk from the New Vegas Clinic to Freeside's East Gate was a somewhat treacherous one for a solitary female. Bitterness over rejection left Megan no room for fear however, and when she heard quick footsteps behind her, she had her pistol drawn and aimed before they could close on her.

Sunglasses floated in the darkness. A familiar voice called out. "Don't shoot! Friendly!"

"Oh. Hello Betsy." Megan stopped and sighed, holstering her weapon. "If you're going to kill me, do it clean. If you're going to yell at me, just… don't. I know I'm a terrible person. I know I'm to blame for Boone's death. I don't need another person telling me I'm scum."

"Wasn't gonna do either. The doc asked me to run you down to make sure you were okay. You came by for a reason, right?" A brief pause, and she added, "Don't let Lydia and the others get you down. They gave me grief at the beginning, too. They thought a soldier shouldn't have the same problem that they do. And you… you're complicated. Doesn't mean they should treat you like crap."

"It's fine. I'm used to it. I only went because I wanted to talk through some things with Dr. Usanagi. And say goodbye. Arcade and I are leaving soon to kill Ulysses. We're not planning to come back here."

The sniper fell into step beside her. "Boone's killer? You're finally going to take care of that? Some of us in First Recon have been wondering if we need to take leave and go take care of that ourselves. He  _was_  one of ours."

"I'll do it," Megan said firmly. "I swear. Y'all don't have to worry about it."

"Yeah?  _How_? The guy was smart, powerful, and  _sneaky_ , to strike so close to McCarran. Are you going to call up a bunch of your buddies in power-armor?"

"That was a one-time thing. I don't  _have_  that kind of power at my beck and call. Besides, two of them died in the last run. I  _do_  have a secret weapon, though. And help. We'll do it.  _I'll_  do it." She was thoroughly tired of talking and thinking about this. Wanted to get on with it, and soon.

Betsy didn't look convinced. "You'd better. Where are you going to start?"

"The Divide. Hopeville. The  _frumentarius_  practically laid out the welcoming mat. He wants a one-on-one meeting. Shouldn't be hard to find him."

Betsy let out a  _whuff_  of surprise. "Sounds like an obvious trap. That place swallows up men regardless of allegiance. Eats them alive. He's waiting for you  _there_?"

"Apparently."

Betsy stopped in front of the East Gate and Megan stopped as well. "Guess I'll go back. 'Sposed to make sure the Freeside girls get back safely. Gonna give some of those bitches an earful, though. I'm going to tell the guys all about your target, you know. They think we've waited long enough."

Megan sighed. More people interested in the Divide. "I hope you'll give me more time. Still, if you do come, please watch who you shoot. I'm not going to be there alone. And be careful."

* * *

Walking onto the Strip was always a surreal moment; leaving Freeside behind for the glittery spectacle of the casinos was like stepping into an entirely different world. Most of them still operated the way they had before - except for the Omertas, who had sold out their fellows to the Legion and been punished severely for it - taking advantage of the security systems laid in place by House and now operated by the Followers. The Families and the Followers were certainly strange bedfellows, and Megan wondered dimly how all that was working now.  _Not my problem_ , she reminded herself.

On a superficial level, the Strip  _looked_  much the same as it had when Mr. House was in control. She ignored the revelers, the hawkers of merriment, and the drunks, making a beeline for the quiet side of things: Michael Angelo's workshop. The headquarters of the upcoming expedition. For most of the last few weeks, it had been hers and Arcade's home, with occasional respites back in Westside.

She met another Securitron at the door, allowing it to scan her face, and let herself inside. She avoided the sound of avid conversation, turning off instead to the darkened wing turned temporarily into sleeping quarters for the various people Ignacio had hired. She wasn't stealthy enough to evade Arcade, however. He caught up with her just as she was turning into bed. She tried to feign slumber - she didn't want to talk to him right now and was afraid of what might come out. He wasn't fooled, though.

"I didn't expect you back until tomorrow. It went that bad, huh?"

She talked to the ceiling, eyes shut tight. "Yeah. You were right. As usual."

"Want to talk about it?"

The question - the one that might unseat everything - came out before she could stop it. "I just have one question: why  _do_  you give me a pass for the whole Enclave thing? Everybody else I know is ready to throw the book at me."

"I'm just a forgiving person," he said breezily, then became more serious. "Look, my mother never really renounced what Richardson did. Or what he tried to do. Ever. My father - and Daisy and Kreger and the rest - were knowingly complicit in atrocities. They did things I can't imagine any incarnation of you doing on your worst day. Despite all that, knowing someone - loving them - covers up a great multitude of sins."

She tried to smile, but her face crumpled at the memory. "I thought Doc Mitchell knew me too. And I was, like, one-hundred-percent squishy niceness back then."

He sighed and sat down against the wall, resigned to another long conversation. "You ended up going to Goodsprings after all?"

"Yeah. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but still… it wasn't the kind of closure I had hoped for."

He was sympathetic. "I'm sorry. It's probably hard for him to reconcile who he thought you were with who you are now. He may think you deceived him, somehow. That you were putting on some kind of act from the beginning."

She clenched her teeth. This was the moment. "Arcade, what would you say if I told you that I recognized your name the first time we met?"

"Uh… that you didn't." Flat contradiction, mingled with confusion.

"Hear me out. If I close my eyes and concentrate on a certain memory, I'm somewhere I've never been. There's  _snow_  under my feet and it's crunchy. It's cold, but I don't really feel it because I'm in power armor. I'm on guard duty." What she didn't mention was the worst part of this almost-memory: the loneliness she'd felt there, the knowledge that she should have been somewhere else.

"What does this have to do with…" he began, before switching tacks. "Where?"

"In a city with a  _lot_  of tall buildings. The courtyard is small - just forty steps on each of four sides. I make a circuit every ten minutes, then come back to the door I'm guarding. I wait there for a count of sixty, until my joints start to stiffen up. Then I go around again. While I wait, I read this… inscription in front of me. It's written on an ugly, blocklike memorial. On it, it says…"

"Megan…" he interrupted again, sounding completely lost.

She talked over him resolutely. "Across the top, it says 'our fallen heroes in the fight against the Brotherhood of Steel.' Midway down a list of names, there's 'First Lieutenant Israel Gannon, April…' uh, 'April  _something_ , 2047.' I apparently spent so much time at that post, staring at that stupid marker, that even now the names come through. In alphabetical order, there was Sergeant Oscar Anselmo-"

Arcade stopped her there, sharp and sad. "Spare me the recitation. My father died on the twenty-first of April. Passover. He didn't get back in time for the dinner… and then he didn't come home at all. I was four going on five. Johnson probably told you and you forgot. Why dredge this up?"

"No. He  _didn't_  tell me. At the end, Johnson couldn't remember his own birthdate to save his life, let alone other details. I'm telling you that some part of me knew who you were the moment you introduced yourself. I'm telling you that you have just as much right as Doc Mitchell to feel like I've been deceiving you. And I wanted to come clean, because you deserve to know."

He slumped back against the wall, crossing his arms in front of himself, an unreadable expression on his face. "How long have you been sitting on this?"

She picked at a loose thread on her blanket. "Since May. After I got shot in Freeside, I dreamed for a long time. Benny - that Chairman who shot me, whom  _I_ killed - showed me things. A lot of 'em seem true now that I've had the chance to sift through them."

"You and your  _dreams_." He said this with airy contempt, but she could tell she'd shaken him a little. "Did 'Benny' have any other earth-shattering intelligence to impart?"

"There  _is_  one thing he said that I still can't make sense of. Can't remember the details of, either. He said that the Legion never would have mustered a second bid on the Mojave if it weren't for me."

"That's just ridiculous. Your oxygen-starved brain  _might_  have retrieved some real information  _in extremis_  - I'm not convinced that's what actually happened, mind you - but you've always tried to shoulder more than your share of guilt. The Legion rose again on a complex set of conditions, not because of the peregrinations of one person-"

"Hopeville," she said, suddenly remembering. "He mentioned Hopeville. Until two years ago, the Divide was a trade route, right? A lifeline to the NCR. It was a severe blow for them to lose it. It hurt their ability to do more than just hold the Dam."

"Yes," he said cautiously. "When I first came out here with the Followers, years ago, that's the road we took. It wasn't much - a few farms is all I remember - but it was a lot more direct than the I-15. That would be  _one_  of those conditions I mentioned, albeit an important one."

"So maybe I blew it up. Or the Enclave did. Same difference, right?" She threw out this damning possibility with wild abandon, not really thinking it was true - It couldn't be true; if it was, how could anybody cope with that that? - but wanting Arcade to try to convince her it wasn't possible. Sure enough, he obliged.

"Don't say that. It's not a joking matter. Putting aside the  _how_ , why would they even do that?"

She rolled her eyes. She wasn't a fan of willfully-stupid Arcade."To destabilize the NCR. To test their control over the weapons systems at Ashton missile base. I don't know. You had to have considered it before," she continued raggedly. "You have a known Enclave presence, weapons of mass destruction, and human misery. Doesn't that add up to you?"

"All of Ignacio's models… all remotely-available evidence… still point to a natural disaster combined with two-hundred-year-old missile storage. But say they  _did_  have a role in it. Where'd they go then? Your brothers-in-arms. If they brought it down on their own heads somehow, why weren't you standing next to them? To me, that speaks to a choice that you made. Perhaps precipitated by a crisis, perhaps not. Some decision of yours made you into a hapless courier who got landed with House's package. I consider you a defector, and that's a good thing in my book. You left before you had to." It was a passionate speech by his standards, defending her from her own accusations, and Megan appreciated it, even though she had yet another bombshell to drop.

 _In for a penny, in for a pound_.  _God, I wish I was drunk_. "That's another thing. I'm not a courier. I'm pretty sure I killed a courier and appropriated her number. And Ulysses knows that. Hell, maybe that's why he's so pissed at me. Because I murdered someone important to him."

But Arcade didn't take this information the way she expected him to. Instead, he shook his head, a skeptical smile on his face. "Did 'Benny' tell you that?"

"No,  _I_ told you that, in the Penthouse of the Lucky 38, right after I used your Enclave associations to blackmail you into helping me rule Vegas. And threatened to sic Boone on you if you refused. He was fiercely loyal to me in this… vision."

Arcade actually laughed, though there was an uneasy sound to it. "That's quite a dream. I can almost imagine it."

"Are you mad?"

"That you blackmailed me in an imaginary alternate universe? No, I can forgive you for that. Easily.  _Ignosco tibi_. There! It's done. Stop worrying. Go to sleep."

"No," she said slowly. "That my subconscious has been running a long-con with you as the mark. It's done a good job. You eventually gave me everything I could possibly want - armor, contacts, information, medical care. 'Cause you're too  _nice_  and I'm apparently a much better actress than I thought I was."

" _That's not the way it was_. You can't retroactively assign yourself ulterior motives." He leaned his head back to rest on the wall, and Megan saw for the first time how tired he looked, and felt a new flush of shame for unloading on him. "Look, forget motivation for now. That's not a productive train of thought with you, you're so… internally divided. You mostly act in a way that an impartial observer would interpret as innocent. Stupid and self-destructive sometimes, but more or less virtuous. I would tell you if you weren't. Your life's  _not_  an elaborate lie. If it was, I wouldn't have thrown in my lot with you."

"How are people treating  _you_ , Arcade?" He stared at her, taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. She clarified the question, "I mean, have you experienced any recent personal or social fallout from all of the… um, rumors, floating about?"

"Well… since you ask, yes. Most of the apprentices going on the trip are terrified of me. It makes for a very strange team dynamic. I don't even know who's telling them - they're all new arrivals since my time at the Fort - but it's an open secret among the Followers." He trailed off gloomily, before continuing on a lighter note. "It's not all bad. Gloria Van Graff has always treated me like scum. But yesterday, when I went to stock on ammo, she was positively obsequious. Offered me a hefty discount on a plasma caster, even."

Megan laughed at this, thinking of the cutthroat businesswoman courting Arcade's respect. "She thinks you might be in a position to deliver them an energy-weapons contract."

Arcade's smile faded. "Yes. Though if that has occurred to her, it does concern me that the Brotherhood or the NCR might be thinking along the same lines, despite the former's current distractions and the latter's failure to condemn you. We need to get out of here."

"Two more days. Less than that now. The morning after tomorrow."

"It can't come soon enough."


	8. You Can Go Home, Courier

**AN: And they're off! Finally. In this installment, you'll find another round of goodbyes - for Arcade this time - and then a roadtrip with an eclectic group of people. There are references to two of my other fics in this chapter: a lot of reliance upon the back stories established in my Fallout 2 story,** _**Et in Arcadia Ego,** _ **including a character from the (as yet unpublished) Chapter 7, as well as an in-universe book partly fleshed out in** _**Notes from the Underground** _ **.**

**I apologize for the slow progress lately. This summer's been a bit distracting, but I hope to be back on a more regular posting schedule going into the fall. Thank you for reading.**

**-ScrimshawPen**

* * *

" _I was born in Klamath. My father was a caravan guard who was caught in a gang crossfire outside of New Reno. My mother and I came to the Boneyard in search of a home…"_

" _Yes, yes, boy. I have that all in black and white in your file. I just thought that maybe, here, among the three of us, you would have more... details for us. The truth, perhaps. It need go no further than this office. We - Ms. Dubois and I - only want to help."_

" _I don't know what you mean, sir." He kept his face smooth and innocent, eyes wide behind his glasses. Inside, his heart was pounding so loud that he wondered how the other two could miss it._

" _I read your essay, Arcade," his teacher spoke up from the chair beside him. She held up the paper, written in his careful, neat script. "On the NCR-Brotherhood treaty. I wanted to give you a chance to re-write it. I don't want this in your permanent file. Not as it is."_

" _What's wrong with it?" His voice was too loud. He thought he might faint, or grab for the paper and run out the door. He knew exactly what was wrong with his essay. The tone of it had been a mistake. But it had been honest. Foolhardy, but honest. There wasn't space enough in his life to express how he felt. He hated the Enclave's old enemies almost as much as he hated the Enclave. It left him no place to find an identity._

" _Your camouflage is slipping, boy," Dr. Rundstrom told him. "You can't write or talk like this. Not from that perspective. People will suspect."_

" _Suspect what, Dr. Rundstrom?"_ Don't goad him, you idiot! _he screamed at himself._

" _I'm not going to dignify that with a response, Mr. Gannon. As the saying goes, 'speak the devil's name and he shall appear.' I'm not going to do that. As punishment for this paper, you will re-write it into an appropriately neutral one by tomorrow. You will also come to my office for one hour every Friday afternoon and we will talk about your future. Do I make myself clear?"_

_There was a strange rushing noise in his ears. "Yes, sir. So you're… not going to tell anybody?" He turned to Ms. Dubois. "Either of you?"_

_Dr. Rundstrom shook his head. "The Followers of the Apocalypse are not in the habit of punishing children for the sins of their fathers. You have nothing to fear from us. But you have to be more careful. Do you understand?"_

" _Yes," he whispered._

" _Then go back to class. And please- don't give us a reason to regret our actions today."_

* * *

Arcade found himself dwelling on the past lately, and today was no exception. After a false start in May, this really  _would_  be the last time he'd sit down with his oldest friends. Three faces were missing, of course: Ebenezer "Cannibal" Johnson and Orion Moreno, respectively the best and the worst of his father's old brigade, hadn't survived the Legion conflict. As for Henry… well, Arcade had said his goodbyes already, and felt perfectly indifferent for it. He doubted whether the scientist would ever notice that his occasional visits had finally dried up. Arcade wasn't ready for  _this_  goodbye, though. He still wasn't at all sure that he was making the right choice. When he looked across the table at the two frail old people - his only remaining connection to his family - he was freshly conscious of loss, both long past and anticipated.

Judah understood, or acted as if he did: he nodded in all of the right places, asked intelligent questions about the route, and wished him well without a trace of bitterness in his voice. A thousand games of chess, a thousand casual conversations, and Arcade still fell short of understanding the man. It was as if the one-time captain had never lost the reserve of rank, even thirty years out of uniform. Saying goodbye to Judah hurt, but only in an abstract, distant sort of way.

Daisy was another story. She was making no effort to hide her feelings at his departure. Worse, she'd been drinking all day and had grown weepy and maudlin by the time they sat down to an early dinner. Holding her thin, veiny hand to comfort her, Arcade was swept up in an unpleasant wave of  _déjà vu_. It was as if, more than twenty years later, he was once again sitting at his mother's bedside in her final hours. Only this time, he would be the one leaving.

He explained - or tried to - the reasons for their leaving, though he knew it wasn't  _reason_  she was looking for from him. He'd never been good at this sort of thing, but he tried anyway. "It's not safe for me here, Daisy. Or for you if I stay. The Brotherhood are alert and suspicious, and they're ranging farther afield than usual.  _You_  saw them. It's a matter of time."

Daisy sniffed angrily at this. "Looking for  _her_  or that mousy scribe, maybe. Not you. You had gotten out, Arcade. You can fade into the background again."

He shook his head. "There's enough circumstantial evidence to convict me ten times over. Enough for their purposes, anyway. I need to not be here when that noose tightens. And anyway, I'm responsible for someone besides myself now." He didn't mention Megan's name, not wanting to elicit another rant. Self-conscious of being unwanted, his young companion had decided to spend the afternoon outside with Lily, giving Arcade the opportunity to say his goodbyes in private.

"She's not worth it, Arcade," Daisy said, her words a bitter plea. "I-  _You're_  family. Israel wouldn't want you to turn your back on that. Not for a crazy waster who might be dead in a month. You'll regret staking everything on that bet."

Having his father's name thrown in his face stung. "This isn't easy for me, either, you know. I'd rather part on good terms."

She was crying now. "How can we? I'll never see you again. I won't know if you're alive or dead."

"I'll be fine.  _This_ is the time we have left. Let's not waste it."

They had to leave Westside before dark if they wanted to make it to Freeside before the gates closed. When he left the house, an hour later, Daisy had gone to bed, but her sobs were still ringing in his ears. Megan watched him apprehensively as he approached with his heavy pack on his shoulders; she opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Even Lily seemed relatively subdued, her small, deep-set eyes almost sympathetic under massive brows.

"If it's alright with you two," Arcade began heavily. "I'd prefer not to talk for the rest of the night."

The journey ahead would be one of the strangest partnerships he could imagine. After weeks of preparation, he still wasn't sure if it had been right to involve themselves in the Followers' mission. Ignacio had asked - almost pleaded, in fact - for him to come, and there was no compelling reason to refuse since they were going in the same direction. This was  _not_ , he emphasized, a hint that he was interested in rekindling their relationship. It was to be a purely professional arrangement. The stocky researcher hadn't blinked when Arcade told him about their own errand in the Divide, and only requested that the assassination take place after they had parted ways, if that was at all possible. Even learning that Arcade and Megan would be bringing Enclave gear along didn't phase him. "I assumed as much. It may be useful to have the extra muscle. Just wait until we're a few days out from civilization."

Ignacio had dreamed of an assignment like this for years. Back when they were together, Arcade had pledged to help him, no matter what. At the time, he'd been in a rut, longing for adventure in whatever form presented itself. These days, however, he sometimes wished life could be boring again. As it was, he found himself preparing to wear power armor openly among the Followers of the Apocalypse, and had argued at length for the value of bringing both a Brotherhood scribe and a nightkin along for the ride. The Followers didn't balk at Veronica - her skills and willingness to help were impossible to pass up on - but Lily was another matter.

"Is she dangerous?" Ignacio asked him when he brought up the subject. "What I mean to say is... is she in control? You  _know_  we don't usually work with mutants… and for good reason, too."

Arcade weighed his words carefully. "She's the calmest, kindest nightkin I've ever met." This was true. Aided by Dr. Henry's treatments, she'd improved greatly even in the short time that he'd known her. "She loves helping humans. And she can carry as much as five men and subsist on much less." These were all true statements, but mostly he wanted her to come because she was good for Megan. As for Arcade himself, he'd grown… well, not  _fond_  of the old creature, exactly, but tolerant of her eccentricities. She'd be an asset to the team. He hoped he wouldn't regret it.

No one felt much like talking their last night in Vegas, much to Arcade's relief. The noises of the Strip outside faded to a dull roar under the fans that kept Michael Angelo's workship cool and ventilated. After a few hours of sleep on the cool, concrete floor in what was to be their last night indoors for days or weeks, they woke  _very_  early in the morning, long before daylight. Julie had bought the Followers an uneasy peace with the NCR - though Arcade still seethed at the cost - but it seemed best to all concerned that they slip out quietly without attracting much attention. No one need know where they were going.

Theirs was a team of eighteen, including the irregular add-ons of Megan, Lily, Veronica, and Arcade himself. Ignacio was in charge, with Ezekiel Mendoza standing as chief advisor. Why the anthropologist and ambassador to the Khans had chosen to come along, Arcade still wasn't sure, but he was undeniably the best survivalist among them. Then there were the eight apprentices - five men and three women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, all with different, complementary specialties - and the four guards, each experienced, loyal men. All in all, it was weighted heavily on the side of people with little or no experience outside city walls, but Ezekiel had been working with the young people, taking them on short foraging sojourns. It would be interesting, Arcade decided, to see how well they adapted.

They had decided not to bring any pack animals. Everything they might need, they would carry themselves or they would find afield. It was to be a three-month expedition; if necessary, they would plan another in the future, Ignacio explained with enthusiasm. If there still remained work to do. Arcade would miss out on any future endeavors, of course - at some point, his and Megan's path would diverge from the group's, and they would turn east alone. In short, he knew this would be his very last venture with the Followers of the Apocalypse, something that bothered him almost as much as leaving the last of the Remnants behind. For thirty years, they had formed the structure of his life; he had never foreseen any other future for himself.

Despite the early hour, various Follower leaders came to see them off, both local and otherwise. The work they had set for themselves was a popular and inspirational cause in their order, and had sparked interest and support far and wide. Julie was there, of course, studiously ignoring Arcade as best she could. Officially, he wasn't even there. His name had been stricken from all the official rolls, and he was permitted to accompany the group only at Ignacio's tolerance and under his supervision. Toshiko dropped by as well, and Arcade was glad. She was the only one who hadn't changed toward him since the truth about his past had come out.

"You'll always be one of us as far as I'm concerned," she told him, eyes bright and wet. "I wish it hadn't ended this way. I wish we could have been better friends. You were always so closed off before. But you've changed recently. For the better."

Wasn't that what everyone was telling him these days?  _You've changed_. He supposed it was true. "It's for the best that I left. Shun the appearance of evil, and all that, right? The important thing is that the work goes on."

She grimaced. "I don't even know anymore, Arcade. The Followers are moving so quickly now. We can't wield so much power and stay the same. I do know that wherever  _you_  end up, you'll do good there. It's in your nature."

A genteel voice behind him made him start, "I always believed that to be the truth. Excuse me, Dr. Usanagi. May I have a moment with my old pupil?"

Arcade turned, fear and surprise prickling his spine. The old man who'd spoken was a stranger to him - stooped, elderly, and well-dressed. A senior administrator from one of the Followers' well-funded chapters at the heart of the Republic, or so he had assumed at a glance. No one  _he'd_  ever had anything to do with. But there  _was_  something familiar about his voice…

"Go ahead," Toshiko whispered. "I need to go check on our mutual friend." Arcade barely heard her. His full attention was fixed on the newcomer.

"Dr. Rundstrom?" he said incredulously. The man had been old - had  _seemed_  old to a young boy, in any case - when he was in charge of the Followers' school in the Boneyard. Arcade supposed that he may have been only forty-five or so at the time, almost thirty years ago now.

"The very same. I kept up with your career, Dr. Gannon, as best I could, but I lost track when you took the Freeside assignment. Tell me, how much of the current chaos is down to you?" He was smiling, but his rheumy eyes were serious and searching in his wrinkled face.

Arcade was bewildered by the question. "Er… very little, really. It's more  _her_  doing. You've heard of the Courier…?" He gestured at the corner where Toshiko and Megan were talking quietly. "I helped her when I could, but I didn't mastermind what she did." Feeling absurd for this dissembling and blame-giving, he tried to defend his friend. "Whatever you've heard, she's not a bad person at heart. Just another lost soul. Vegas attracts people like that. There were a lot of good intentions behind the 'chaos,' as you describe it."

"Perhaps you  _should_  have directed her steps, just as I once did yours," his old teacher murmured. "I read about her trouble with the NCR after the fighting was over. Can it be a coincidence that I find you by her side, or were you caught up in old… allegiances? Some conspiracy?"

Arcade was twelve again, sitting in the headmaster's office and circling the topic without saying anything outright. "It was less of a conspiracy and more of an… appropriate allocation of resources. Sir." He thought of the aging soldiers he'd just left, the vertibird fueling station in the mountains, and the two sets of power armor concealed in Lily's massive packsack a few meters away and fought the sudden urge to laugh. How little this secrecy mattered anymore. He could tell the old man everything, from the color of his room in Navarro to his father's name and rank, and nothing would happen to him. Literally everybody present - with the possible exception of Lily - knew what he was, and that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

There was a hint of apprehension and sadness in the look Rundstrom gave him then, and more than a hint of fear when he took in the plasma defender that Arcade now wore openly over his travel clothes. With his next question, he sounded very old and tired. "Do you remember the only thing I asked for, in return for my silence?"

Arcade did, as if it was yesterday. "That I not give you cause to regret it. I haven't. Everything I did - every new compromise I made - I did to protect innocent people. I would do it all over again, even knowing how it had to end. I'm not ashamed of any decision… well, any  _big_  decision I've made." He found to his relief that this was still true, despite his uncertainty about specifics. The last year and a half had been bracing, to say the least, and events had forced him to confront a great deal of baggage in a relatively short amount of time. But his conscience was clear.

Rundstrom waited, as if expecting more. When nothing came, he nodded. "Well, I guess that's that, then." The old man made a show of washing his hands in the air. "Where are you off to next? Rivas tells me your association with this enterprise is temporary."

Arcade didn't like the look he saw in the old man's eyes and decided to play it safe. "Elsewhere." They weren't out of the NCR's reach  _yet_ , after all.

The last of the warmth departed then. "Ah, elsewhere. I've heard of that place. Be safe out there. I suppose this is the end, then. Always good to see an alumnus." They shook hands and Arcade watched him totter away, wishing that he had found the words to reassure him. Dr. Rundstrom had spared him at a time when it would have been easy and natural to turn over such information to the authorities; many would have believed it was the right thing to do with an angry child with obviously divided loyalties. Who knew what rumors he had heard. Had  _he_  been moved to testify at Megan's trial… Arcade shivered at the thought. His life was all loose ends, it seemed. It was amazing that he had made it so long without it all unravelling. Yes, it was high time to go.

* * *

Her pack was very heavy, Megan realized not long after they left Freeside by the east gate, bidding Dr. Usanagi a final farewell as the doctor turned toward to the clinic. A little too heavy, truth be told, but she didn't know what to throw away. Five pounds of it was caps, another five was books, and the rest was all necessary for a long journey. She'd fenced the gold bar - in pieces - to various merchants over the past few weeks, redeeming it for a fraction of its value in caps, gear, and a better weapon for herself, and medicine and food for all. She'd quietly left a sizable bag of extra funds on her bed back at Judah's house, a silent 'thank you' for his hospitality and a tacit apology for depriving him and Daisy of Arcade's presence and support. Had he stayed in Westside, he would have helped the two old ones at the end of their lives; now, without him, they would surely struggle. For that reason, she had tried to address that situation, in her own, awkward way.

No amount of money could make it up with Daisy, however. Megan had made herself scarce on their last night in Westside, leaving Arcade to make his final farewell in private, but she had still caught a lot of the grief, anger, and denial lashing out from the old woman in indiscriminate waves in recent weeks. They hadn't been friendly since Novac, of course, but in the end there was pure animosity. Despite this, Daisy had permitted Megan to take possession of her power armor - her only remaining valuable possession - an act of goodwill that left her confused. She wanted to ask Arcade about this, but hesitated, not wanting to bring up a sore subject at the moment. She was trying to turn over a new, sensitive leaf, and it seemed best to not badger him with too many questions this early in the morning.

In her early days, back in Goodsprings, Megan had to admit - she'd been annoying. Almost everything she thought, she immediately said, and it made her cringe to remember the child she'd been. Time had given her a modicum of impulse control - not much, but a little - and she at least sometimes had the restraint to leave things unsaid. She'd also gotten better at reading other people's moods and behaving appropriately. For this reason, for the first leg of their journey, she didn't try to talk to Arcade, whom she knew to be grieving in his own quiet way. She also had the sense not to reopen things with Veronica, who hadn't spoken a single unnecessary word to her in the weeks since the Sierra Madre. Instead, she dropped back to chat with Lily. Lily was herself tiring, but she was also tire _less_  and eternally nonjudgmental. For hours, they talked about nothing while Megan let her mind run free, thinking of what they would find ahead. Maybe, once the job was done, she would be at peace.

As it turned out, Arcade was the one who opened the conversation, when they stopped to eat lunch just an hour outside of Primm. "I've been waiting for a chance to tell you something important I learned recently," he began. "Only you looked like you were having such a good time with Lily."

"Well, I'm here now," Megan droned from where she lay in the shade of a rock, eyes closed. She was already bored at the slow pace of their entourage. Alone, she could have been in the Divide in half the time. But Arcade  _would_ insist on staying with the Followers as long as possible, and she didn't want to go against him there. He'd given up so much for her already. "Shoot."

"One of the new arrivals from California has a book with him. Not Pre-War. It was printed at the Followers' publishing house in the NCR. It's something a couple of our...  _their_  researchers have put together. A philosophical treatise on the long-term effects of Vault-Tec social engineering on humanity, interposed with some primary sources."

Megan had no idea where he was going with this, but tried to feign enthusiasm. "Sounds interesting."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Sentimental meandering with no clear goal or meaningful destination. I don't understand sociologists. It's the appendix that's useful - a listing of known vaults by number, along with their location and a description of the experiment they were running. Someone cracked a Vault-Tec database and most of what they found there was reprinted in this book "

She sat up, heart pounding. "And?"

"There are two vaults near Bangor. One, Vault 27, was to be overcrowded from the start with twice the sustainable population… completely unnecessary cruelty, and may well have failed quickly. Anyway, the other, Vault 16, had an extensive library of works of literary merit, chosen in spite of 21st century censorship laws. It was designed to foster a culture in which the inhabitants devoted themselves to study of the liberal arts. It was  _really_  luck-of-the-draw for those who chose to trust their lives to Vault-Tec..."

"Yeah. Bastards and their weird experiments. The second one fits what little I know," she said calmly, though on the inside she was on fire with excitement. "It explains why I'm so comfortable with books even though I can't read." She had a number. A home. A destination. "It sounds like your kind of place, too. Should we go?"

"It's a long way," he warned her for what was probably the tenth time. "I don't think you understand how big this continent is. How irregular the terrain is. How hard it'll be on foot now that nature's had two hundred years to reclaim it. Also the fact that we have no idea what kind of people are living there or along the way. There are other destinations, other homes.  _Known_  variables. We could aim for one of them instead."

"I did it once, and-" She blustered into her automatic answer, not saying what her real reason was. That this was her  _family_  they were talking about. There could be answers there that weren't horrifying and depressing realities.

"Yes, yes, and you'll do it again. I know. Alright. We'll go. After this errand in California, we'll go to Maine. What has my life come to?" He made it sound like a joke, which meant that he was probably anxious. Fair enough. So was she. But surely he hadn't  _really_  expected her to change her mind?

Once they were back on the march, Megan changed the subject. "How are  _you_  feeling, Arcade? About leaving Daisy behind?"

"I'm trying not to think about it," he answered quietly. "I wish I could have stayed nearby for a few more years - although, to be honest, I've spent more time with her this year than I have in the previous twenty. But at this point, the suspicion on my head - not to mention yours - is a danger to her and Judah both."

"I'm sorry," she told him for what must have been the thousandth time. "I didn't mean to fuck up your life."

Instead of saying that it wasn't her fault - as he usually did - he nodded, accepting the apology. "You did do that. However, if it weren't for you, I'd likely be a Legion slave or dead, so there's that. And even if you  _had_  left me out of your drama… honestly, up until I met you, my life was going nowhere extremely slowly."

"As opposed to going somewhere unknown at breakneck speed?"

"Precisely," he said with a smile. "I live in interesting times now."

Something else occurred to her. "A few days ago, Kreger gave me two sealed letters and two names. Dawn and Nicholas Kreger. Do those mean anything to you?"

A blink of surprise. "Yes. He had a family once, back in Navarro. His wife and son were in the last group that made it out, bound for DC. I never knew which. He stayed behind." He frowned. "I don't understand why he didn't give them to  _me…_  except that he's never been the sort to share about his personal difficulties. Perhaps you're enough of a stranger that he didn't mind that small confidence. Perhaps he suspects that you want to rejoin whatever Enclave holdout remains in the east."

She shook her head. "I swear I don't. But why didn't he go with them in the first place? Or follow later?"

"I don't know. I was very young when the adults around me were making those decisions and I don't remember the details. Maybe something broke between them when his older son died. Maybe he thought he'd join them someday, and he waited too long - those first few years after Navarro were precarious ones for those that escaped, and he may have chosen loyalty to us over loyalty to his family. And later, their…  _our_  vertibird didn't have the fuel capacity to make such a long trip." He sighed. "I don't actually know very much about Judah, for all that I've spent a fair amount of time with him over the years. He's not an easy person to get to know."

She nodded. "I have the letters with the other papers in my waterproof pouch. I don't mind carrying them indefinitely. What are the chances that we'll be able to deliver, though?"

"Slim to none, I'd say. His wife would be in her mid-seventies, and Nicholas would be about ten years older than I am, so they could very well be alive… but that's assuming they survived whatever force routed Adams Air Force Base, which I'm guessing was some combination of the Brotherhood of Steel and enraged locals. History doesn't repeat itself, but it often rhymes, as some old wag once said." He stopped and shook his head. "We'll try, of course. It's good to know he never forgot about them. There's a lot of regret behind that facade of his, I'd wager. That was true for all of them, but especially him."

* * *

Even the inexperienced travelers adjusted quickly to life on the move, aided by the relatively slow pace they kept to as they hiked their way through the mountains to the west. While he was never exactly friendly toward her, Megan found that she liked the no-nonsense Ezekiel. He had detailed knowledge of the skills that she'd picked up in scattershot style, and didn't mind teaching a willing pupil. Most importantly, he could find water seemingly anywhere, and soon she stopped fearing the neverending desert as much as she had.

Early on the third morning out from Vegas, the expedition nearly came to a sudden and very violent end. Tired of travelling in the ordinary way, Megan rifled through Lily's massive pack until she found the heavy bundle she was looking for: Daisy's power armor, one of the two remaining sets salvaged from Navarro.

Arcade looked up from his half-slumber by the cookfire where he was supposed to be stirring the porridge. "You're suiting up  _already_? We only have three fusion cores apiece, you know."

"There'll be more in Hopeville. Military site. Good salvage." She snapped the helmet into place and gave him a smile he couldn't see. "And what can I say? I love wearing these things. It makes me feel powerful.  _Grr_. No one can mess with me now. I'm invincible." She felt positively ebullient - if slightly manic - the closer they got to their destination. In her mind, Ulysses was as good as dead.

He sighed. "Legate Lanius would beg to differ. If he were alive, that is. Just don't go taking on any deathclaws  _mano-a-man_ o, okay? Physics still apply, even when you're wearing power armor."

"No promises. Hey, why did Daisy let me have this, anyway? She hates me. She quite fervently wishes my bones were bleaching in the sun. She said those exact words the day we left, in fact." Megan knew the old pilot was grieving, but it still hurt to be so thoroughly rejected, especially for things she couldn't do anything about.

"Well, Judah had already promised me his - he was never going to wear it again - and Daisy knew I'd probably give you the armor unless you had some of your own. Funny thing about Daisy: she wants me to survive, even if that means helping you."

"I tried to thank her, but that didn't end well at all. She threw a bottle at me. That's when I decided to spend the day outside…"

At that moment, Lily - all hulking eight feet of her, flowered muumuu stretched over corded muscles that could snap a brahmin's back - ambled back from wherever she had wandered off to, massive purple lips turned up in a vacant smile over bared teeth.

What happened next was terrifying and unexpected. It was the cause of a day's delay and the subject of hours of meetings among Ignacio, Ezekiel, and Arcade, with Megan throwing in the occasional objection from the sidelines where she was nursing her bruises ("She didn't  _mean_  to!").

When the dust had cleared, everyone agree that what had happened was this: when Lily - or, rather, her psychotic alter-ego Leo - caught sight of what appeared to be an Enclave soldier in the middle of camp, he immediately woke from where he usually slumbered in the back of Lily's mind. His battle cry of "DIE, METAL MAN!" was not one that anyone present would soon forget.

Only Megan's quick reflexes prevented Leo from carving a path through the sleeping students to get to her. She drew off the enraged nightkin, leading him on a frantic, five-mile sprint through the thankfully-unpopulated environs of the Sierra Nevada foothills. More than once, despite the augmented speed and endurance permitted by the armor, he nearly caught her. When she stumbled and almost fell on a loose scree of rocks, he clipped her elbow with his sword, numbing it for a minute and leaving a persistent ache behind.

In the end, Megan left an exhausted, subdued Leo panting far outside of camp, and staggered back alone to remove and hide the armor away again. An hour later, Lily followed, all apologetic smiles, massive hands (one still holding a five-foot blade) outstretched to the petrified onlookers.

"Grandma's so sorry for giving everybody such a scare! Leo's a bad boy but he's gone now. Who wants a hug?"

There were no volunteers.

After days of gradual exposure to the triggering stimuli, Lily was judged to be "safe" again when she didn't bat an eye at the sight of Arcade and Megan in full armor, except to make comments like, "That  _really_  doesn't match your eyes, honey" and "Leo doesn't like that very much, but he's being good." It was strike one against them in the eyes of the company, and there was renewed suspicion from all sides, especially against Megan. She found herself drawing away from the company as much as possible, keeping her distance; even at mealtimes, she was mostly alone.

It took exactly two weeks to reach the facility outside of Hopeville, the first and most accessible target. By then, the air had grown thick with toxic fumes and irradiated dust kicked up by the never-ceasing winds. Everyone except Lily had donned gas-masks and Megan was glad of the superior filters on her suit, which she had taken to sleeping in, never minding the discomfort. Still, it was a relief to be out of the reddish-brown haze, even if the alternative was a long, dark tunnel leading down into the bowels of the earth.

Megan envied the way Arcade could shed his past along with his armor, which he removed as soon as possible, leaving it behind with the bulk of their camping gear near the entrance of the underground construction. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him  _not_  to do this - you wouldn't catch  _her_  abandoning her best defense (and offense), not in a place like this - but she restrained herself in time. It was important for him that he play the part of a Follower - that he prove to the expedition (and, specifically, to Ignacio) that he was a peaceful man at heart, not the soldier whose legacy he wore. That was fine. If she could have blended in as well, she would have.

As things stood, she wasn't helping his image by being there. Among the apolitical Followers, she had dropped all pretense to innocence (not that any of them had ever really doubted that she was exactly what she appeared to be). The apprentices treated her like a particularly dangerous specimen for observation, especially after the incident with Lily. Ignacio spoke to her only to request assistance, all polite reservation and wariness. And as far as Veronica was concerned, she didn't exist at all, with the result that only Arcade and Lily would speak normally to her. She shrugged off their coldness; soon, it wouldn't matter what a handful of scientists believed - or thought they believed - about her. Soon, she'd be an unburdened stranger again, free to walk unnoticed wherever she wanted.

They passed more graffiti - the same message as all of the others they'd passed, she assumed; certainly, it was signed with the same symbol, so similar and yet distinct from the emblem on her shoulder: both suggested the stars and stripes of Pre-War America. She ignored the whispers and mutters as she always did. Whatever Ulysses' obsession with her meant, it was her business.

After all this time, the emergency power was still working. Ignacio, in the lead, pressed a few buttons on a control panel, and the blast windows opened, revealing the purpose of this building.

There was a collective groan of horror and grief from the men and women assembled in a rough ring on the viewing platform. Megan turned to Arcade, expecting to see his usual analytic reserve, but instead she found him as caught up in the moment as any of the others. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought him seized by an unpleasant religious experience -  _him_ , the atheist!

Ignacio had begun to speak, sounding for all the world like a preacher at his pulpit. "Friends… and  _allies_ , we have arrived at our destination. If we accomplish nothing else with our lives' work, we will have done the world a healing service if we can bring down the monument you see before you.

"All of your lives, you have heard cautionary tales of orders given and buttons pushed. We can't take those decisions back from our ancestors. We live with the consequences in the food you eat and the air you breathe. We live in the shadow of this monument every day of our lives."

He paused - for breath or for dramatic effect, Megan wasn't sure. She was genuinely impressed by his presence. She'd always found the nervous little man slightly pathetic, and had often wondered what Arcade had seen in him. Now she recognized in him something powerful - the figure of a true believer.

"Never again. I'll say it twice - never again! Not here, in any case. Neither accident nor evil intent, no opportunistic soldier under any flag..." Here, his eyes flickered briefly to Megan. "The next time someone seeks this monument, they'll find only inert rubble. Harmless. No one will be able to rebuild it. Not even people like us, if we do our job right." He was breathing heavily now, his face beaded with sweat, mouth turned down in sorrow. "We should have destroyed it - and all like it - long ago. Overcome by a century of distractions, we failed, and we saw another apocalypse here. Hopeville paid for our oversight."

Ignacio sighed and turned to study the smooth pillar behind the thick glass. "Civilization has a grave: our ruined cities and poisoned land. It needs no epitaph other than the lesson we take away from its mistakes: never again. We all took an oath when we joined the Followers of the Apocalypse: to heal the world by preparing it for a better choice. To remember our history and learn from it. To peaceably prevent further obscenity. That oath has brought us this far, and it will carry us through to the end of our mission." His rounded shoulders sagged and he became a soft-spoken researcher again. "That's all I had to say. Let's unpack and get to work."

"All that for a missile. What's next - a homily on a tank?" Megan whispered to Arcade as they walked back to the top, wanting to lighten the mood between them. The look he gave her was scornful - even angry - and she was shocked to see tears in his eyes. "Sorry," she muttered, looking away.

"It would behoove you to listen to a man like Ignacio," Arcade said stiffly after a moment. "The Followers are all about redemption. Insofar as guilt alone is an excuse for inaction and despair, they don't believe in it. How else do you think I came to terms with my past?"

" _You_  never had anything to feel guilty about, Arcade," she reminded him. "You were a kid when all that came to an end."

"Tell that to my twelve-year-old self.  _He_  despised his classmates for being 'mutants.' He believed Orion Moreno - for a few years, anyway - when he said the Enclave was in the right the whole time. It was easier to blame the whole world than it was to blame the people I loved."

"You were a  _kid_ ," she repeated softly. "Your choices as an adult are the only standard you should judge yourself by."

"I know," he said patiently. "That's what I'm saying. The Followers taught me that. And now I'm trying to teach you."

"You think I need that lesson?"

They passed the scrawled message on the way back up and Arcade's face tightened with some unspoken concern.

"Yes. I think you do. Choices. Conscious, informed, peaceful choices are all that separate us from the people who built and armed this place two centuries ago. Choices are the difference between who you are and who you were the last time you were here. Hold onto that difference. Whatever you do, don't lose yourself here."


	9. Divided Self

As soon as the anguished warbling fizzled out, Megan knew she'd made another mistake. She looked around, thinking that perhaps no one had seen the act (or heard the godawful noise of the dying machine or her gunfire), but she had no such luck. Even as she returned the gun to the sling on her back, an outraged voice from behind her put her hope to rest.

"Why on  _earth_  did you do that? It wasn't hostile. It could have been useful for cracking the security on this place."

Caught in the act and flustered, Megan couldn't remember the name of the person who now confronted her. Francis? Francesca? She was positive that it started with an "F." They both stood looking down at the smoking remains of an eyebot, identical to the one that had traveled with her all the way from Primm to Hoover Dam. This one had emerged from some kind of stasis pod and chirped a familiar greeting, just before she'd plugged it twice with her brand-new nail gun and finished it off with her shotgun. There had been no hesitation between stimulus and response; her hand had moved before her mind knew what it was doing. And now she'd created another problem between herself and the Followers.

The woman's impatience cut through these contemplations. "Well?"

Even though Daisy's armor made Megan a foot taller than the other woman, she found herself nervous and tongue-tied, fumbling for an answer. "There's a... guy out there. He was using this bot to spy on me. On all of us, maybe. It was dangerous. If we find any others like it, we need to destroy them too." This sounded crazy. Paranoid, even. Megan knew it to be true, but realized now that she should have communicated this before acting.

The young Follower crossed her arms in front of her, apparently choosing exasperation as a veil for fear. "How do you know all that?"

"Because he's done it before. Look, just trust me on this," she pleaded.

Someone behind them laughed unpleasantly. Veronica happened to be passing by at that moment, staggering under the weight of the tool box that Lily had hauled all the way from Vegas. She'd been working in the maintenance closet of this auxiliary control station for much of the morning, and Megan had forgotten she was there when she started fiddling idly with the instruments. "Trust, Courier? That's a good one."

"Says the woman who kidnapped me," Megan muttered, not bothering to keep her voice down. Lately, it felt like every hand was turned against her, and it made her surly and resentful.

At least Veronica was at the bottom of the pecking order as well. "Says the Brotherhood scribe here by tolerance," the apprentice - Flora? - said loftily. "Neither of you are in my good book. Just… don't destroy any more stuff until we've had a chance to analyze it, okay?"

Veronica wouldn't leave it alone. "Don't lump me in with that one, Felicity," she warned. "But really, what's one more eyebot gone? It's one of  _theirs_ , you know."

The two of them walked off together, sniping at each other, leaving Megan to poke mournfully at the mess. She had really liked ED once, and it hurt to lose it - or him - again, even if he had been Ulysses' servant all along.

"Is everything okay in here?"

Megan turned and jumped, as she always did, at the sight of Arcade in armor. It just didn't  _look_  like him. "Fine. I killed a copy of ED." She couldn't keep the shame out of her voice, even though she suspected he wouldn't shed a tear over the loss of an eyebot.

If Arcade had an opinion on the matter, he kept it to himself. "So you did. Come on. Ignacio wants us to try to pry the next level of security doors open. Hacking into the mainframe isn't working. If we can get it open a crack, then Lily can get a lever in there." He led her back down the hallway to the control room. "Keep your weapon at the ready once we get through. Security manifest says there's a pair of sentry bots on every level."

"I guess we're leading the way then, huh?" She mentally ticked off a sentry bot's main weapons: lasers and missiles. Maybe they wouldn't use the latter indoors. Thinking about this made her feel nostalgic and happier, the earlier unpleasantness notwithstanding. "Sounds invigorating! I haven't really fought robots since Helios One. Remember that day, Arcade? It feels like such a long time ago now."

He looked at her askance. "A little more than a year is all. I admit it was a long year for you, though. On that subject, we do have EMP grenades this time as well. Just be careful with any bounce back. Wearing these, we're very vulnerable to that kind of weapon."

"I know, I know…" She knew he couldn't see her smiling, and she had to restrain herself from skipping. She couldn't explain it, but it felt  _right_  to be fighting alongside Arcade in armor, knowing that almost nothing could stop them. "Hey, do you think these suits will hold together long enough for the journey east? If we can find enough fusion cores, that is. I'm pretty sure that's how I did it on the way here." She hadn't known this when she started speaking, but once she'd said it, she knew it was true. Somewhere out there was a suit with her name on it instead of Daisy's.

Arcade visibly repressed a shiver at this. "Uh… I don't know. At the rate you go through power armor, probably not. And I don't actually want to spend six months living inside this shell. To be blunt, wearing this is an ongoing personal nightmare for me, and I don't want to be taken for one of them by anybody else. Do  _you_?"

Put on the defensive, some of her earlier pique rose to the surface again. "No… not really. But, I mean, it's an identity. The only one I have. It's hard for me to drop that altogether because there's nothing to replace it with."

"I'd rather be nobody from nowhere than someone who draws their entire sense of self from that legacy," Arcade commented, a trifle bitterly.

 _He doesn't get it_ , the cornered part of her snarled. On the surface, she stayed calm. "You can say that because you  _are_  somebody else. You've had thirty years to invest in other things. I've had a year, and most of what I've built is dust and ashes. Everybody who offered me a home either died or took back that offer. Who am I without this?" Megan touched the armor reverently. It would be hard to lay it aside, and she'd avoid that as long as possible.

"Someone who-" Arcade stopped, apparently noticing that they'd reached the control room and that there were others listening. He leaned over and spoke as quietly as he could, "Someone who  _isn't_  proud of a heritage of mass murder."

Megan slumped, chagrined. Sometimes Arcade really could take the fun out of things. Sometimes - usually - he was right. "Okay. You win. But for now, it's just a tool. Let's use it, okay?" She flexed her fingers as she approached the steel reinforced door, wondering if there was any way at all this would work. As it turns out, she needn't have worried.

Even as she was craning her neck to make sure Lily was coming with her prybar, a speaker on the wall buzzed to life, speaking in a voice which had a canned quality, but which was still identifiably female. " _Bzzt._ Authorization accepted under emergency protocols. US military personnel are cleared through level three. You may proceed."

Everybody watched in silence as the door slid open. Some wag in the back of the room - Megan didn't see who - applauded, calling out with mock-cheerful heartiness, "Alright, I'm convinced. It's a good thing we brought them."

* * *

Caution guided their upward movement, as they dealt with one level at a time over a period of days, clearing the way for those skilled at programming to hack their way through the doors that didn't open automatically. As it turned out, that was only about a third of them. The run-of-the-mill soldiers the system had tagged them as didn't have the clearance to go most places.

US military personnel or not, the sentry bots didn't care who the invaders were, not that anyone had particularly expected them to. Robots were unpredictable and twitchy at the best of times, and these had been on red alert for the better part of two centuries. Fortunately, these steadfast guardians had spent those years shooting at rats, roaches, and ghosts. Their ammo sputtered out after a single volley, their cells were running dry, and their large joints moved stiffly as they tried to aim. One had a missile detonate prematurely, tearing off most of one of its limbs. Armed with the grenades, Megan and Arcade made short work of them.

"That was too easy." Megan couldn't keep the disappointment out of her voice. "C'mon. Give me a  _challenge._ "

Arcade ignored her, moving forward to fuse the still-twitching limb of the last bot, lest it spontaneously resume shooting. "I think that's the last of them, but we should move forward with caution. Make sure this tunnel is totally cleared." Shifting his gaze, he called out to someone behind Megan. "Lily, stay back there, please. It's not safe yet." Lily had been eager to join the fight, but neither of them wanted her to. A stray laser burst would do more damage to even her thick skin than it would to their reinforced armor.

"But Grandma  _wants_  to help!" Sure enough, she had her sword at the ready, and there was a glint in her eye that looked almost like Leo. Sensing the danger, Megan clambered out of her armor - just in case Leo  _did_  put in an appearance - and led her away from the tunnels, nearly colliding with a distracted Ignacio on the way back to the main chamber. Walking slowly, she spent twenty minutes talking her down, patting the pan-sized hand and reminding her of cool, undisturbed nights among the Jacobstown bighorn and siestas in the shade back in Westside. Quiet things. Sleepy things. In time, the big creature grew somnolent and agreeable, and Megan led her back through the complex to her massive bedroll, where her knitting lay waiting for her. When she wasn't needed to move something heavy, Lily's needles had been working around the clock, making gifts for everyone who made eye contact with her.

"I love the hat and scarf you made for me." This was only half a lie. They were scratchy, oversized, and smelt strongly of the animals they'd once been a part of, but Megan  _did_  need more warm clothes. Depending on how much longer they spent here, it would still be winter when they began the trip east. "Can you do a pair of mittens next? They seem trickier, so I'll understand if you can't."

"Of  _course_ , Marcella. Grandma can make anything. What color would you like?"

After choosing the shade of brown which Lily called "purple" - the yarn palette was, in reality, limited to dull earth tones - she left the nightkin to her work, hoping that had been enough to pacify Leo for the time being. Jogging back to help finish what they had started, ignoring the incomprehensible taunts on the walls and the glares and whispers that her passage inspired, Megan worried, and not for the first time, about Lily's future. More than once, Megan had brought up the possibility of bringing her along, and Arcade had either deflected the question or brought up objections: that she needed the stabilizing company of other, calmer mutants, that she would attract unwanted attention everywhere they went, and that they had no way of knowing what kind of reception a mutant would receive on the other side of the country.

He wasn't wrong. It was probably selfish of her to want to take Lily away from the best and safest home she could have. Still, it seemed so cold and  _final_  to leave her behind, without any real plan or possibility of return. There was no one in the world who was so overflowing with unconditional love. Somewhere, in the partitioned corner of her mind that still let her fantasize about the best possible future, Megan saw herself meeting her family, introducing them to Lily and Arcade, and all three of them living together in Vault 16 for the rest of their lives. This would never happen, and she knew it, but she held onto the image anyway. It kept her going when imagination took her to darker places.

When she got near to the office leading to the exit tunnels, she found the door closed except for a crack and heard raised voices coming from behind it. Through the window, she could see Arcade and Ignacio facing each other down, the former out of his own armor. Shuffling her feet uncomfortably at the threshold she hesitated to go in. Sure, her stuff was in there and she still had a job to do, but they deserved privacy. That said, she had nowhere else to go. Sitting against the wall just outside, she tried not to act as if she were eavesdropping. If she was honest, however, she had to admit that she could hear half the conversation quite well. This was because Ignacio, usually so cool and composed, was almost shouting.

"I don't understand  _why_ you're so committed to suffering this… this exile. You have options. I have leverage now. I can help!"

Megan strained her ears to catch Arcade's response, but he was too quiet. Ignacio made up for this, though. The normally soft-spoken researcher sounded like a different person, passionate and angry. "Afraid? You're not  _afraid_. If you were, you wouldn't wear that, carry  _that_ , or travel with…" At this point, his voice dwindled to an inaudible register, but Megan had no doubt about how he'd finished the sentence.

Arcade's voice rose with anger or anguish - it was hard to tell - and grew louder for it. "Don't make it about that...long time coming... you wouldn't have stayed... you  _can't_  understand."

Ignacio said something much softer that sounded like, "Tell me," and Megan decided that she'd listened long enough. She'd take a walk - a  _long_  walk - from the tapered top of the missile down to the bottom, making herself busy if she could, and then she'd return and barge in loudly and obliviously. They needed space, but there might still be sentry bots to kill, for crying out loud. This wasn't the best time for a  _moment_.

It wasn't until a quarter of an hour later, as she was using her trusty nail gun to help a pair of Followers make a ladder, that the full implications of what she had heard struck her: what  _if_  Arcade let himself be persuaded? Where would she be then?

Megan watched her only friend closely in the days that followed, searching for a sign that his long-term plans had changed. He was a little quieter and a little more irritable than usual, but didn't say anything about the conversation. She, in turn, gave no sign of what she'd heard. On the rare occasion that she saw him and Ignacio in the same room, they were studiously polite to one another and betrayed no sign of their closed-door quarrel. She allowed herself to hope that he'd choose her over his other options, but hated herself a little for this. Shouldn't she  _want_  him to be happy? When she tried, once, to bring it up in a roundabout way, it turned into quite another conversation.

"Do you  _like_  working with the Followers here? They don't seem to treat you very well." It was evening on the fifth day and they were hauling water for washing, drinking, and cooking from the silo's emergency reservoir, a massive tank intended to put out fires or cool an unexpected meltdown. For the first time in days, they were alone together.

"I do and I don't. Ignacio and Ezekiel knew me well enough before that they haven't changed… well, not much. That the others treat me like a pariah is a bitter pill to stomach, but I enjoy participating in the work in any way that I can. Not that they've needed my particular skills much," he finished with a smile.

She swallowed her nervousness and pressed further. "How… how much longer do you plan to participate?"  _Will you ever be ready to leave the Followers?_  she added silently, fear twisting her stomach.

He mistook the reason for her question for simple impatience and sighed. "Another week. Maybe two. Are you afraid that Ulysses will act first?" Without waiting for a response, he moved to assuage a fear that wasn't even one of her top ten, "Don't worry. Very little short of an actual nuclear blast is getting through those blast doors on the ground level. Not now that we've sealed them from the inside."

Megan assumed that Ulysses already knew exactly where she was, and hadn't been unduly concerned about him showing up early. In any case, Arcade had said exactly what she hoped to hear, and relief made her generous. "Take three weeks if you want it. As long as I get to go outside, and  _soon_ , I don't mind you lingering here. Whatever makes you happy."

* * *

 _Finally_ , after a full week and far too many delays - slow hours of cautious movement through the complex, eradication of enemies down to the individual radroaches in the basement, and painstaking construction where the combined efforts of Lily, Arcade, and Megan herself were needed to create scaffolding for access - the pair of them were ready to set out into the town of Hopeville.

Armed and armored beside her, Arcade had ventured out burdened with test tubes and bags, materials with which he'd take soil, air, and water samples, and a perpetual attitude of worry, which he apparently couldn't help but voice.

"God, the wind is horrible down here. Much worse than on the other side of the silo somehow. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm extremely glad to be wearing power armor. I think it'd scour the skin from our bones if we weren't. Just like those bodies we saw inside. The pain they must have felt before they died..."

"They were ghouls," Megan reminded him from on top of a towering pile of rubble she'd climbed to get a better view. "They're s'posed to look pretty rough." Uninterested in helping with a science experiment, she had brought only weapons, ammo, and a basic survival kit.

"Ghouls or not, they are  _not_  supposed to look like that. Ghouls have  _skin_ on top of the muscle. I don't know why it's like this here. Neither a localized nuclear accident nor an earthquake would cause this kind of atmospheric phenomena."

"It's always been like this," Megan said absently, trying to map out a navigable route down to the lower half of town. "It's worse now, obviously, with the toxic particulates in the air and all, but the wind isn't new. The people who lived here used to wear cloth wrapped around their exposed skin all the time. Those who could afford them wore gas masks. It was... an odd sight. You had to learn other ways of recognizing people apart from their faces." Her view of the town in front of her seemed to double as she dragged out this recollection. One second it was greenish and tidy and populated, and the next it was as she saw it now. Brown. Dead. Destroyed. Feeling slightly dizzy, she shook this mirage away and focused on the reality.

"That so?" It was hard to read tone or expression through the mask that tilted upward to look at her, but she could see the tension in his shoulders before he shrugged and turned away. "Then there's probably some other explanation for it. Not that we're ever likely to know it. My knowledge of landmarks grows sadly limited the further we get from the places I've called home."

Feeling inexplicably happy, she hopped down in big, lumbering leaps and landed heavily with a muffled crash beside him. "We're going to see so much cool stuff, Arcade. I'm really excited about beginning our lives as explorers. I'm so glad I don't have to do it alone - can you imagine? I wouldn't know what anything  _meant_. Wouldn't know where I was. At the very least, you can read the road signs."

"I'm wrong sometimes, you know. When I step outside of the range of my experiences, all I have are educated guesses. Take it easy on those controlled falls, okay? Veronica may not be on board for doing repairs this time around."

Megan peered at the metal tendons which served for shock absorbers on her legs. They seemed alright to her. She started walking in her chosen direction, beckoning for him to follow. "Do you think she'll be alright in the long run?"

Another sigh. "I don't know. Hopefully. If the Brotherhood will let her go - or if she can stay under their radar - then maybe. I half-suspect that, once she's finished here, she'll be back at the Sierra Madre, trying to break down that door. She's not ready to let go, whatever she says."

"Do you talk to her?" Megan hadn't heard the scribe mention Christine, but, then again, she hadn't exactly had many conversations with her former friend lately. Their hard words over the eyebot days before had been their longest conversation since the Sierra Madre.

Arcade shrugged one shoulder in apparent embarrassment. "Sometimes she talks to  _me_. When her need for a sympathetic ear exceeds her natural antipathy toward me. Unfortunately, she's almost as much of an outcast in this group as you are. I have a soft spot for someone in her situation."

Megan stopped, scanning the line of buildings ahead, searching the empty sockets of the glassless windows for signs of danger. All seemed quiet, but some instinct in her was tingling with buried unease. "You'll always pick me though, right?" she asked, half-jokingly, half-concerned. "You wouldn't  _leave_ for Veronica's sake, would you?"  _Or Ignacio's_ , her mind supplied, and she blushed with shame at this line of thought.

"Nope, and she wouldn't want me to, either. For better or for worse, you're stuck with-  _Get down!_ "

Without hesitation, she dove to the earth, just as something very hot - so hot that she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck shrivel through the protective layer of metal and asbestos padding - passed over her head and splashed against the half-destroyed wall behind her. She fumbled for her weapon, and for an angle that would give her some kind of protection against the unseen attacker. Arcade must have had eyes on something, however, because she could already hear him firing as glowing green filled her peripheral vision.

Arcade laid down continuous fire as he led the way to shelter - the corner of a long-gone building that still had about six feet of solid, brick wall at its highest point. Megan gripped her shotgun, and peered over the edge, looking for something to kill. Perhaps she could flank them while Arcade kept up the barrage. In the meantime, there were explosives to use. The missile silo had been lousy with them.

Forgetting her own strength - the throw would have been difficult out of armor - her first grenade sailed far above the opponents she could see, men or ghouls whose armor had the same bastardized, patchwork look as the bodies they had found inside. The second fell much closer.

"I'm going to throw one more. Give you a chance to reload. Then I'm going to take the fight close. 'Kay?"

"What? Yes. I mean  _no_. Don't-" A near-miss by a missile drowned out whatever else he had to say and he crouched down to jam more cells in as Megan lobbed her third and last grenade with deadly accuracy. At least she  _thought_  it was deadly accuracy. She didn't actually watch long enough to see the effects.

" _Relax_. Me 'n Boone used to do this all the time. Just keep your distance and don't hit me." Without waiting for a response, she ran off, taking a circuitous route, trying to follow the contours of the terrain she'd seen from her vantage point before. Adrenaline had her tuned to "fight," and she absolutely loved it.

 _They're not feral_ , she reminded herself as she came upon them, rounding one of the walls that they were using as partial cover. This would have been much easier if they had been. Feral ghouls were creatures of pure instinct, driven by hunger or ferocity or other base impulses. They didn't use weapons, wear armor, or work together. This also obligated her - at least a little - to try and communicate with them, even though she didn't expect the attempt to go anywhere.

"How come you guys attacked us? That was  _rude_."

Without hesitating, without speaking, half of them turned on her with close range weapons - weapons that would have been terrifying under normal circumstances. A massive sword (at a glance, it resembled the one Lanius had used), a glowing red spear fed by a jury-rigged power source, and a heavy weapon that dribbled bright blue sparks from the end.

"I'm not afraid of a cattle prod and a couple of sticks," she scoffed. "We can talk about this. I'm only here for Ulysses. About yea high, wears a flag. Seen him? If you force my hand, I'm not averse to killing you too." Already prepared for diplomacy to fail, she was grinning broadly under her mask, combat shotgun in her hands.

A stone-faced Mr. Cattle Prod led the way, using the remaining seconds of his life to deliver a surprisingly painful shock at a distance of about six feet. To Megan, it felt like a swarm of stinging insects, like miniature cazadores, had invaded her suit, stinging, cramping, and spreading out from where they'd struck. The right half of her body stopped working, and only the suit's built-in stability kept her upright. She squeezed the trigger involuntarily, but the shot went wild, somehow missing him clean even at extreme close range. The recoil combining with her spasming grip made her lose her grip on the gun altogether. That's when a well-aimed (or lucky) shot from Arcade caught the lead attacker in the head, cutting off his attack immediately.

By the time the other two closed, she was recovered enough to move. She was also angry. She caught the sword with her left hand, the impact stinging but not cutting through, and ducked inside the ghoul's guard to throw a clumsy but effective haymaker at his head. Even thought it was probably unnecessary at that point - his raw, skinless skull had deformed slightly under her nerveless knuckles - she then finished him off with the last few missiles in the nail gun that still hung on her utility belt. One never knew when that might come in handy.

Alone now, the last ghoul was no match for her. She disarmed him easily, grasping the tip of the hot bar of metal like it was nothing and jerking it out of his hands before reversing it into a languid, swinging hit that was nonetheless effective. Knocked off his feet and badly burned by his own spear, he struggled back to his feet, hands raised in either surrender or attack. Not bothering to find her gun first to make the mercy-stroke, Megan grabbed his neck with the hand that wasn't still weak from the shock and  _squeezed_. It worked - how could it not? - but it horrified her in a way that a more hands-off kill never had. She didn't stop, it was too late to  _stop_ , but she shut her eyes tight as the tissues gave way under her fingers and his struggles ceased. It didn't take long. Dropping the body, she turned back to wave the all-clear to Arcade, only to find that he was already working his way across the debris-strewn street, still looking anxiously around for more attackers.

If only there were an arms merchant within a hundred miles, Megan thought, surveying the gear that the red ghouls had been clutching. She'd make her fortune here, not that she needed caps at the moment. As it was, it hurt to leave everything in the dust. "It's the principle of the thing," she told the dead attackers. "I don't like to be wasteful."

The sight of a symbol scratched on a crumbling pillar - Ulysses' mark, as she thought of it by now - made her frown. Wherever she went, he was there, going ahead of her, taunting her, and spying on her. But why would he daub his symbol here?

She paced around in agitation, ignoring Arcade as he arrived and began to inspect the bodies. One word from her - accompanied by a gesture toward the symbol - was sufficient: "Ulysses." He nodded as if he understood and didn't say anything.

Inside a half-rotted bookshelf which leaned against one side of the pillar, she found a metal box. Exposed to the elements through the skeletal walls of the building, the lid was rusted tight and came loose only with some effort. Nearly empty, it contained only a torn piece of canvas wrapped around something lightweight and square-shaped. She guessed what it was before she opened it and the idiosyncratic version of the stars and stripes on the label confirmed its origins.

"A holotape? From  _him_?" Arcade had walked up behind her, looking oddly primitive with the spear he was examining in his hands. "That's interesting. Let's have a listen."

" _No_." Just as she had with the faux-ED, she acted without thinking. The cartridge deformed easily in her grip, reminding her with sickening lurch of the ghoul's larynx. In a moment, it was so much plastic and unspooled tape in her fist. She dropped it at her feet and kicked the marked pillar for good measure.  _Take that, Ulysses_.

"That was probably-" Arcade began and then broke off. After a strangled pause, he spoke again, his tone deceptively patient, but rising at the end with irritation. "You didn't want to know what he recorded on it?"

"How did you guess?" It was hard to convey sarcasm through the helmet, but she did her best. Her earlier joy had fled. Now that the glorious moment of excitement had passed, replaced by this reminder, a headache was creeping up behind her eyes. Confronted by this insidious  _trap_ , weariness and disgust threatened to drag her down. She wished Arcade would go back inside and leave her to finish this scouting trip on her own. She could handle a few more well-armed ghouls alone if it meant not having his far-too-observant eyes along.

"'Know your enemy.' Sun Tzu. I'm not telling you what to do, but trail markers like that could be as much or more about him as they are about you. They could help you understand him."

"Understanding would make it harder to pull the trigger," she said, teeth clenched tightly. "I don't need to understand him to kill him. I don't want to, either. He probably has this whole interesting, complicated story, with  _reasons_  and all, but I don't care enough to listen. He lost me as an audience when he killed Boone." This explanation made sense, or so she thought, but it was a half-truth at best… maybe closer to a quarter. She didn't think Arcade was buying it.

He looked heavenward, as if seeking inspiration. Or patience. "If you find another one, can  _I_ listen to it? I'm curious, even if you aren't. I won't tell you what it says."

"No!" Even the suggestion made her tremble with panic. Arcade looking over her shoulder had forced her to destroy  _this_  one. Had she been alone, she might be listening to it now, learning who knew what.

He tossed the spear aside and looked down at the tape and back to her again, anxious fingers tapping out a count of ten on his thigh before he spoke again, his obvious concern making his speech unusually stiff and formal. "Your death grip on ignorance alarms me. Can you explain yourself further?"

"If I figure it out myself, you'll be the first to know." She turned away and started walking, praying he'd drop it. "Let's move on. There's a couple of old military buildings down below. Could be good salvage for stuff we can actually use, unlike these weapons. Though I kind of fancy that thing that shoots fire. Pretty good range for a flamethrower. And what's that thing, do you know?" She gestured at the green-splattered cattle prod which now lay in a pool of plasma soup. "That headless one almost got me down with it. Thanks for the assist, by the way."

"An arc welder. Fairly effective against power armor. Let that be a lesson to you about charging in alone," he answered shortly. He followed her obediently, but he wasn't going to let himself be distracted. "Megan... you  _do_  know I'm on your side, right?"

"I know."  _And I want to keep it that way_. "Between you and me, I'm going to be pretty confusing until this is over. Until we leave this place, I think. I appreciate your patience. And... if it's not asking too much, I need a favor."

"Name it."

 _Keep me grounded_ , she wanted to say. Instead, she said, "Give me some space. I think that'll make it easier to process all the… everything. I'll come to you when I need your help, but in the meantime, I'd like to figure this out myself."

"Give you space," he repeated dubiously. "Is that a  _good_  idea?"

"It is. Trust me." She nodded firmly to make her point more convincing. "I mean, sure, I'd like some help for the next day or two making sure all the hostiles are cleared. These are soldiers, after all, and they're well-armed. After that, though, I'd prefer to do my own thing for a while. You can stay to help the Followers, and I'll explore the area surrounding Hopeville. Might even bring Lily out with me some days. If she can take the environment, that is. It'll be really liberating. I sure as hell don't want to spend any more time than I have to with the others."

Arcade seemed about to raise another protest, but thought better of it in the end. "Whatever you need. Just don't go too far. Just a little longer, and I'll be ready to go the rest of the way with you."


	10. Things Left Undone

**AN: Trigger warning for bodily horror. I'm also adding a major character death warning for the fic as a whole (not specifically this chapter).**

* * *

_Stab_.  _Stomp_.  _Schlunk_. That  _schlunk_  was Megan's favorite part, the sinking sensation of the shovel sinking under her weight and momentum into the earth, the blade biting through even the hard-baked crust. It got harder to jump as the day wore on - the joints of the suit would fill with grit and, besides, she was  _tired_  and nothing she did changed that. She ate, drank, and slept in the shadowy, in-between times but she was always empty. Always unsatisfied. There was no end to the work she had to do. As long as there was power for her suit, however, she could keep moving. That mattered more than anything else.

Approaching the end of a fusion core was the worst, like dying a slow, torpid death. It was one of the few times she absolutely had to concede to natural limits. She hated the long, ponderous slog back, feeling like she was moving through water or a particularly bad nightmare. Once, it froze up completely fifty feet short of shelter, stuck between one step and the next. The struggle to escape her prison, collect a power source, and return to retrieve the suit - facing exposure to the elements all the while - had been sufficiently painful to teach her a lesson: always carry a spare. Thankfully, the silo's commissary had them stocked in great quantities. As soon as the Followers had broken through the multiple layers of security, Megan had seized the opportunity to bogart as many as she could carry, concealing them at several strategic points throughout the town. No matter what, she wouldn't be caught out helpless again.

Things had gotten better… or, rather, her response to things had gotten better. Engrossed in the work she  _must_  do, she had stopped caring about the way the others treated her. She didn't hear the gossip, see the suspicious expressions, or notice the way a group fell silent when she passed through a room. The only emotion she  _did_  feel was mild annoyance when someone asked her to do things that distracted from her main task. She did them, of course: collected specific supplies, carefully detached the payload from any warheads she found, and reported occasionally to the expedition leaders on her discoveries.  _Most_ of her discoveries. Some she kept to herself.

Not the detonator. It didn't occur to her to hold that back. Intuition told her its likely purpose, but she shrugged it off and put it in the scientists' hands along with the papers she'd found with it. The ghouls had been keeping it like a sacred totem in a crate atop one of their hideouts, but there was no evidence that they'd ever used it. Megan, for her part, had no interest in adding any more ambient radiation to the environment. Not frivolously, in any case. By then, she knew that the Divide was a loss as far as people were concerned, but another part of her knew that it might someday recover, if only it was left alone. Even if that was a geological age away, she'd not do anything to delay that day. She'd spent too much time with the Followers to do that.

The things she kept secret were the memories of people and places that came to her unbidden. Like how she knew that the partially mummified man found pinned under the roof of his tiny shack had been disabled, a simple-minded person the whole community had looked after affectionately. Or how she recognized at once that one of the children who had lived in a farmhouse on the edge of town was missing. She ate up half a day frantically searching for a third small corpse, giving up in despair only when her Pip-Boy started flashing warning lights of the thirst and exhaustion she hadn't noticed. If anyone had seen her and asked, she would have said she was looking after her neighbors. No one noticed. She was alone out there.

Megan succeeded in bypassing Arcade almost every day. She left before he woke up, and returned as late as she could manage, letting herself in with the security code the Followers had set up on the blast doors. She told herself she wasn't avoiding him, only giving them both a break from each other's company. When they did happen to meet, she gave him every assurance she could muster, betraying only cheerful impatience and exhaustion, neither of which would invite much scrutiny. She didn't want him to interfere until she was done. She also didn't want him looking too hard at her actions, unsure of what he would think. He was so much more perceptive than Lily, after all, and so much more likely to raise a fuss. She straight-up  _told_  Lily how she spent her days, knowing that she wasn't one to ask invasive questions or tell tales on her to the others.

"Do you think it's the right thing to do?" she finished. Wrapped up in blankets and tucked in against the furnace of the nightkin's side, she could say anything, ask anything, without worry. Lily had nothing but approval to offer in return. She was the safest of safe confidents.

"Yes dear, of course. Grandma would help you if she could. That wind is very, very bad for her complexion, though." Her every word was punctuated by the clickety-clack of needles the thickness of railroad spikes, tools that never seemed to rest. Under different circumstances, it could have been annoying, but Megan found it soothing. "Who else would take care of them, if not you?"

"No one, I guess," she mumbled. "They'd just stay there until the sand wore them away." This thought, the thought of so many left, made her tense sore muscles, aching to return to it. She  _must_ finish. Even in the sleep that eventually came, she kept up that same motion:  _Stab_.  _Stomp_.  _Schlunk._ A heave and a toss, and repeat. Six feet long and three feet deep. The shovel made it easy to measure. Her days were measured in new holes. She could do about twenty, in addition to her other duties, if she didn't slack off. Sometimes more, sometimes less. She'd bring her number home to Lily and her nonsense comfort would make her inadequacy bearable. There were still so many to find.

Of course, all this was before the bottom dropped out of her sanity. After that - after the  _big_  discovery - she kept digging, but couldn't talk to Lily. Not about important things, anyway. Even Grandma had her limits (presumably) and Megan didn't want to find them.

* * *

If Arcade had been less distracted, and not privately rehashing the total disintegration of his way of life, he might have noticed the warning signs sooner. To all appearances, Megan was doing well under the circumstances.  _Too_  well. She smiled too much and spoke very little. She was alone for nine or ten hours at a time, coming back only to eat and sleep. These patterns did not fit his prior experience with her, but when she more or less politely rebuffed his questions about where she went and what she did, he didn't press her, assuming that "calm" meant she was alright. He'd assumed that Ulysses was her primary problem and, when she didn't even mention him, he relaxed. Something about Hopeville had piqued her interest and she seemed content to spend her days exploring every nook and cranny of the town.  _Nothing wrong with that_ , he decided.

Around the two-week mark, there was a change in her demeanor and behavior, and no amount of distraction could keep him from noticing. She moved her bedroll away from Lily's, shifting it closer and closer to the exit until it was just a few hundred feet away from the door, near the remains of one of the sentry bots. This allowed her to come and go without interaction. If he saw her at the evening meal, it was only a glimpse. When he tried to talk to her, it felt like a confrontation instead of a conversation, with her eyes darting around him, already mentally gone, answering his questions with quick disinterest. She was too tired for talking, she said. When he asked, almost in earnest, if she was ready to move on from Hopeville, her response was immediate and surprisingly vehement: " _Not yet!_ " He wasn't ready either, not really, so he let this drop, ignoring the pricklings of unease.

It was Lily, of all people, who brought him a second warning, a few evenings later, and again he failed to take immediate action. It was  _so_  easy to not take Lily seriously, and the nicknaming didn't help.

"Archie?"

"What it is it, Lily?" He willed himself to have patience, but found it in short supply. Only yesterday, she'd brought him a hat with ridiculous ear-flaps, refusing to leave until he'd tried it on.

"Grandma doesn't need her medicine anymore. But she did bring it. Just in case of emergencies."

"Oh?" Surgery aside, Arcade wasn't at all sure the nightkin wouldn't benefit from a regular dose of antipsychotics. However, he had no idea who would fill the prescription once Dr. Henry had passed. It was best not to create a unsustainable dependency. "That's good, Lily." He wondered where she was going with this.

"Can Grandma give them to Miranda? She's been talking to herself. She doesn't  _say_  it, but she thinks she's two people. A good one and a bad one."

The nightkin had never once called their mutual friend by her correct name, but he knew who she was talking about. "No. Negative. At the dosage that works for you, it would poison her." He took a deep breath, trying to decide if he should demand that she hand over the remainder of her pills, but ended up going in a different direction. "In any case, she's not psychotic. She often talks to herself. That's not unusual. It  _can_  be healthy," he added dubiously. "Who  _does_  she think she is?"

"Someone she doesn't like. Someone named Megan." Lily looked at him expectantly, a glow of trust in her eyes, waiting for his answer.

He blinked and stared back, fumbling for a response. "Thanks for letting me know. I'll watch out for that. Remember what I said about that medicine, okay? It's just for you." Within a few minutes, he had mentally filed this strange encounter with every other random thing Lily had ever told him, and gone back to his book.

He didn't totally forget about it, though. When an impatient Ignacio asked him to approach Megan about a simple job the following morning - the work of a few minutes that would be made easier by two pairs of hands in armor - her answer was puzzling. "I can't. I have somewhere I need to be then. Maybe when I get back?" As if she had a  _schedule_  to keep. But she didn't come back, or not until after dark, and by then they'd made do without her. He wasn't upset at her for this; as far as Arcade was concerned, she didn't owe the Followers anything. (He was beginning to wonder if he himself did at this point.) The incident left such a disquieting mark on his mind, however, that he resolved to have a heart-to-heart the next day, whether she wanted it or not. There was such a thing as too much alone time.

That was the day she didn't come back at all and Arcade knew then that he'd allowed her to drift too far. Nine o'clock passed, then ten, eleven, and midnight. He paced the tunnel for a long time, eyeing the blast doors and debating the wisdom of a search. In the end, he decided to wait until morning. He knew she had a "place" out there - she'd alluded to it vaguely; he knew he had little or no chance of actually finding her out there in the dark, in unfamiliar territory. He resolved to leave at first light.

She beat him to the door, just barely, dragging herself in with a puff of dust, leaving reddish-brown tracks in her wake. He would hardly have known the original color of her suit was black, it was so dirty. He noticed with a new flutter of unease that she'd exchanged the shotgun for what appeared to be a modified tri-beam laser rifle. It had a lot of power and matched the armor very well, but it wasn't like any other weapon she'd ever voluntarily picked up.

"Where have you been?" he asked, trying not to sound like a disapproving parent. "I worried. And what's that  _smell_?" The faint but unmistakable smell of rotting flesh wafted out to him, as she'd been sleeping with carrion.

"Not  _now_ , Arcade," she sighed, climbing out of her armor as if every joint hurt and leaving it standing at the ready. "There was a dust storm. I got pinned down. Slept out there in my armor, which could explain the smell. I didn't think you'd notice my absence, but I'm sorry. I'm just coming by to refill water and grab some food. Let me by."

"Stop a second. I haven't seen you in two days. You owe me more than that." He tried to examine her, not liking the dark circles under her eyes or the pallor of her skin. "How are your rads?"

She waved a hand. "They're okay." She started walking away.

He stopped her. "Show me your Pip-Boy."

Reluctantly, she held out her left arm. "You got me. They're a little high. I was going to go grab some more radaway from stores, actually. If that's alright? I did pay for a lot of that stock."

He did a double-take, appalled by the numbers he saw. " _Dangerous_. That's what this says to me. What are you  _doing_  out there? Is your armor damaged? Are you eating or drinking contaminated supplies?"

She pulled her arm away. "No. I had some hands-on work to do out of the suit. Got some exposure. It happens. Leave it."

"I  _won't_  leave it. You can't feel good. You have to be feeling symptoms. Why wait so long?"

Still grousing, he followed her from the canteen where they kept potable water and all the MREs they'd found in stories. She grabbed three of these, then made a beeline for the impromptu clinic where they kept their medical supplies. She grabbed a half-dozen bags of radaway and a bottle of rad-x and tried to side-step him to make her way back to the exit.

He didn't move. "You're not going back out."

She bared her teeth at him in a feral expression that was not a smile. "Watch me."

He stood in the doorway, hoping he wouldn't have to physically prevent her from leaving, that she'd see reason. "You need to run that now - not in twenty minutes, not in an hour. Now."

"If I had left my armor on, you wouldn't still be standing there. I'd make you-" she began darkly, then stopped herself mid-threat. "If I take it, will you leave me alone?"

"I'll stop bothering you...  _about the radiation_ ," he promised.

She accepted this answer and slumped into the chair in their impromptu clinic. "Fine. Hit me."

Silently, he hung the bag and fed it into one of the veins on her right arm, trying to avoid the old scar tissue from her former habit. "One's probably not enough," he said quietly. "You could use a second, but I'd stagger them at least a day."

"I hate radaway almost as much as rad sickness… well,  _early_  rad sickness." Her eyes slid closed and she learned her head back against the back of the seat. "I'll take the others with me. I need to stock up at my safehouse for… next time this happens, I guess."

"Is your 'safehouse' where you soaked up all of this?"

"It's sealed. It's safe. An old military... thing. Fallout shelter, I guess." She was breathing slowly and regularly now. The bag was only a third through, but he thought she'd fall asleep before it was empty.  _Good_ , he thought.

"You need to be careful, okay? Radaway isn't a miracle drug. There's only so much it can do for severe radiation poisoning."

She laughed at this for some reason. "Yeah. I know that. And I  _am_  careful. This was different. A special case. It won't happen again. I'll take precautions. I got most of it last night. My fault."

"I'd like to come out with you next time. There's not much left for me to do here and-"

Her answer was immediate, almost panicky. " _No_." After a second of silence, she seemed to repent of her rudeness, and added, more contritely, "Not yet, Arcade. There's a few more things I need to wrap up. No offense, but you'd only get in my way."

Neither of them said anything until the course had finished. He was about to try to guide or carry her to a nearby cot - radaway had a way of knocking people out - when her eyes opened again and she pulled out the needle herself.

"Thanks. I'll be back tonight." And she was gone again, footsteps leading her back to her armor and back out into the wind and sand.

Arcade gave her ten minutes, waiting until he'd heard the distant sound of the heavy doors opening and shutting. Then, he followed. His armor waited for him, neat and clean, and relatively unpitted by grit - he'd not used it outside since those first two scouting days, and had cleaned it thoroughly since. He was reaching for the helmet on the top shelf of the closet, when he saw it. Daisy's armor -  _Megan's_  armor - lay in a filthy, lumpy pile on that same shelf, pushed far to the back as if she'd been trying to hide it.

"Oh my God," he whispered. He tried to imagine what would have made her go out without protection. How long she could last out there, hammered by the elements, particularly in her weakened state? What had begun as an attempt at spying had just become a rescue mission.  _Dammit, Megan. What are you doing?_

Once outside, he ran. She hadn't been lying about the dust storm. The visibility was still very poor and he was clumsy in his fear. He chose a clear path down, past the first line of buildings where they'd fought the ghouls, noticing that Megan had done a lot to clear the way since that day. Too late, he realized that he should have brought the empty suit with him. He'd have to talk her into taking shelter, then go back to get it.

He kept running, blindly, until he reached an open space. It was then that he fell into the hole that opened up unexpectedly under his feet. It wasn't that deep. Standing, the edges were barely up to his waist, with dry, crumbling sides, but it had surprised him. He stepped out and looked around more carefully, realizing for the first time that he was surrounded by dozens - if not hundreds - of fresh graves, dug into the deep trenches between the furrows of an old field, row after row of them, as far as he could see. A shiver went up his spine. Was  _this_  how she spent her time? Why would she do it?

He ran onward, and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement as someone stepped out of one of the grey-plank houses near the edge of what had once been the tract of cultivated land, several hundred yards away.

He moved to greet her, apprehensive but relieved. She hadn't gone far. A little care, and she'd be alright. He wouldn't let her stay out alone anymore. Solitude - particularly solitude in a hell like this - wasn't good for anyone, least of all Megan. The wind died for a second, giving him clear visibility: whoever it was - and who else could it be? - they were wearing power armor. Not Daisy's power armor, clearly, but  _someone's_.

Hand on his weapon, he approached the figure, who'd begun digging on a new row. He was fairly certain it must be his friend - he recognized the weapon lying beside the hole, in any case - but was inclined to proceed with caution anyway. "Megan?" he began incredulously. "Whose armor are you wearing?"

She jumped and half-reached for the weapon before looking up at him and settling down again. Then, she squared her shoulders and faced him directly from the bottom of the hole. Arcade prepared himself for either a bold-faced lie or an uncomfortable truth. Megan went with the latter. "Mine," she said simply, swiping a hand across the red dust coated chestplate. "See? It is, right? I spent about an hour looking at the letters, trying to be sure."

Avoiding the human remains that lay awaiting burial, he approached the edge of the grave. He leaned forward, squinting to read through the coating. Sure enough, there was a name embossed there in slightly irregular, machine-tooled letters:  _M. Martus_.

"Yours," he confirmed. A calm, cool dread flooded his mind and mingled with a total lack of surprise. He asked the only question he could: "Where did you find it?"

Instead of answering, she pitched up one more shovel-full of dirt, commenting casually, as if this was normal. "Good soil here. Or at least it was before. No rocks, either. I can sort of see why people settled here, weather and all." She dropped the tool in the half-finished hole and climbed out to greet him on ground level. "You really shouldn't have followed me, Arcade." It wasn't a threat. She sounded almost bored. Or maybe she was just tired.

"You've been acting peculiar. I was worried. Lily was worried. I saw Daisy's armor and assumed that you'd walked outside without it on purpose for some reason."

"Whatever you think, I'm not suicidal. And Lily doesn't even know who I am most of the time," she said coldly. "I had it handled. You being here makes things complicated for me. I'd really appreciate it if you went back to the silo and waited for me there. I can talk to you later."

"Not until you tell me where you found that power armor." He looked around again at the graveyard, shaking his head. "Or why you've made it your personal mission to bury all of the bodies you've found out here."

"That's easy," she said. "It's  _wrong_  to leave them out where someone might step on them. If they did, the bones might snap and give them bad dreams. Most of them were probably innocent. I went back and forth on the ghouls we killed. I spent too long trying to figure out which ones were Legion and which ones were NCR. I buried them all… then I dug 'em up again, then buried just the ones that had standard-issue gear... then I second-guessed myself. In the end, they all started coming apart on me and I guessed it didn't matter and put them back. It doesn't, right? I  _had_  to cover them all up, otherwise I might step on them."

Rambling, confused, and circular, this was  _not_  the explanation Arcade had wanted to hear. He'd come back to that later. "No, it doesn't matter. Handling the dead respectfully is good, regardless of their origins. And the armor?" he prompted.

She made a nervous gesture with her hands. "You're not going to like this. You're going to be  _angry_. Promise you won't be angry?"

"No. No blank checks for you. Tell me anyway. I'm your friend. That gives me the license to get angry from time to time."

"I found it."

" _Where_  did you find it?"

"Less than a quarter mile away, there's a bunker. It's under a house, through a trapdoor." She seemed to be studying him, waiting for his reaction. When he didn't move, she continued. "It's nothing like the one your old friends had. Just one big room with a bunch of supplies. Some cots and weapons and stuff. I think it was a military-grade fallout shelter from before the war. They…  _we_  must have had the location tagged and access code handy, somehow. I found it and got through the hatch a week ago. It was locked, but I reached out and entered the numbers in anyway. My hand knew the combination, even if  _I_  didn't. Armor was standing there, waiting for me. The fusion core was dead and there weren't any left in the shelter, but I had extras."

"Okay," Arcade began, trying to quiet his growing concern. "You've been here before. We knew that. Why not let me in on your secret?"

"I haven't gotten to the bad part," she said slowly, head hanging down. "That's just necessary background information."

"What's the bad part?"

"I didn't think it would go on this long," she pleaded. "I thought it'd be over that first day. I didn't think there'd be time to go get you. I thought I could manage things without ever bringing you there. I was wrong. It's been… awful. I erred, badly. I'd still be waiting if you hadn't caught me." She kicked a clod into the open grave behind him. "I was so sure that it wouldn't take long, I dug a grave the next morning. I was going to make a marker. I don't know if she deserves that or not, but it seemed fitting. I didn't know any of the others' names. I can't read her name, but I could've copied the letters off of what's left of her clothing..." She trailed off, still refusing to look up.

 _She._   _Her_. These words cut through the dissembling and excuses and set off all of Arcade's alarms. "You found a  _survivor_?" Fear made his voice harsh in his own ears. "An  _Enclave_  survivor? How many are there? Are they hostile? Heavily armed?"  _I have to warn the Followers_ , he decided.  _If there's an Enclave presence here, they need to know_.

"One. Just one." She looked behind her, back toward the direction she had just come from. "As of a quarter of an hour ago. I don't know for how much longer. I've been thinking that for the last six days. I couldn't bring myself to kill her outright. She can't survive what's happened to her, though."

Pushing back the urge to vent his horror at this revelation, Arcade took a direct approach. "You need to take me there. Now. What's wrong with her?"

"Severe radiation poisoning. I'm sorry. I should have come to get you-"

"Go. Yes, you  _should_  have! Tell me what you've noticed on the way. Rad-count? Go  _faster_."

She broke into a jog, answering obediently but reluctantly, drawing out the words. "Over six hundred. It was hard to get an exact read. Her skin didn't… hold up very well under the Pip-Boy's weight. Her eyes were gone when I found her. Her hair. Most of her teeth. Her body feels and smells like it's rotting. It was lucky she was in bed when she stopped moving, because I don't know how I would have moved her otherwise. She's  _leaky_ and I can't even begin to describe how horrible it is."

Arcade sped up. "And you've done  _what_  with this person for the last week?" He didn't care how accusing he sounded. As far as he was concerned, she deserved any ire he cared to dish out and more. What she was describing was negligence, pure and simple. She  _knew_  better, or he had thought she did.

"I gave her med-x, radaway, and what I  _think_  was saline. There's a lot of clear bags..."

"You're almost certainly not giving her enough med-x. Can she talk?"

"No." She hesitated. "I don't think so. I haven't really tried to talk to her. I was afraid she'd talk back."

"Your sense of compassion leaves a lot to be desired. Seriously, what the hell? You  _do_  realize, don't you, that this could just as easily be you if things had been different?"

Megan either wasn't listening or she'd decided to double down on hypocrisy. "She's just an Enclave soldier, Arcade. In the ordinary course of things, we'd shoot her on sight."

" _You_  might. I'd try to-" He gave up in disgust. "Look, let's just get there."

* * *

Inside the house and under the rug was a hatch of thick, dark metal. She punched in four numbers - a code he took pains to memorize - and it opened. She dropped into the dark ahead of him and, a moment later, fluorescent lights glowed below. He followed, and found her already out of her suit, waiting for him. As soon as he pulled his own helmet off, he found that the atmosphere inside was overpowering. The sickly-sweet smell of infection and rot mixed with a variety of bodily fluids made it difficult to breathe.

"I didn't think anyone could smell like that and live," Megan said, handing him a wide strip of cloth and tying a similar one around her own face. "First time I came down that ladder, I thought for sure I'd be finding a body. This isn't ghoulification, is it?"

"No," he answered shortly, trying not to gag, breathing through his mouth, but  _tasting_ the smell all the same. He'd seen ghouls during the intermediate stages of transformation. That was painful to watch, but it was nothing like this travesty. He approached the figure on the cot, noting that the thin sheet draped over her was badly stained. A cursory inspection told him that Megan had been correct in her prognosis, if not the appropriate course of action.

"Hello. I don't know if you can hear me or not, but I'm a doctor. I'm going to try to make you more comfortable."

The woman - only barely identifiable as a woman at this point - didn't respond in the slightest to the sound of his voice. What remained of the skin of her neck felt hot and sticky, and the pulse was still there, depressingly strong.  _She might go days yet_ , he mused in consternation.  _Living through hell no matter what I do._

"Would it be okay to just give her an overdose?" Megan asked timidly from his elbow. "There was a lot of med-x in the supplies. There's still a lot left. I've seen you kill patients before. Like that Powder Ganger in Nipton."

" _He_  was conscious. He gave consent." Part of him wished Megan had done just that; it would have been many degrees better than her inaction. Now that he was here, however, he felt obliged to put his foot down. It was hard to feel justified in extending this, and hard to believe that anyone would choose this, but actively killing the dying wasn't something he was comfortable with. "No more radaway," he murmured, continuing his examination. "That only delays the inevitable. The damage to the marrow, the intestines, and everything else is too great. It's her bad luck that the heart and lungs are still functioning. Why didn't you come get me?"

"I was afraid!"

"Of  _what_? No, don't answer that right now. So you, what, dosed her and left? For hours at a time?  _Overnight_?"

"I give her one in the morning, one at noon, and two in the evening before I leave," she answered sullenly. "She doesn't make as much noise as she did before. I assumed it was enough." She cleared her throat. "She's visibly uncomfortable by morning, though. Not screaming, exactly, but obviously in pain. I try to get here early."

He winced at this. "Don't make ill-informed assumptions when it comes to other people's suffering, okay? If you had told me, we could have worked out shifts. Done this right."

"You're right. I should have." She shuffled her feet. "Do you want some rad-x, Arcade? I don't know if it's her or her clothes or what, but my Geiger counter's pretty clicky up close."

He sighed and stepped away, accepting the pill with his clean hand. "Okay, I'm going to work for a while. I'm going to need you to go tell Ignacio where I am and why we'll be gone. Also get my stuff, in case this takes a while" His eyes fell on a cot at the opposite end of the room, where Megan's pack and belongings lay. "I see you already have yours." His shoulders sagged. "When this business is over, we should just move on. Leave before this place totally erodes your sense of morality."

Megan gave him a startled look. "Tell Ignacio? Tell him  _what_? That I found one of my old compatriots and we have to take care of her? I can't admit that to him. I literally can't. He'll have… follow-up questions I can't answer."

"Really?  _That's_  what you're worried about? I think we're way past that." He looked unhappily at the woman, wishing that he could be anywhere but here. "Okay, I'll go. Give me some time to work on her her, and I'll go. You'll stay here," he ordered. "Talk to her. Give her meds if I'm out past noon for some reason. Be a decent human being, if you can manage that.  _Don't abandon her again._  I don't care what personal problem you're trying to work out with all the grave-digging. The living come before the dead. That's basic."

An hour and a half later, he left, having used all of the gauze he could find to cover the frail, oozing skin, and establishing a better IV than Megan had managed. He left detailed directions, not expecting her to need them. He'd be gone an hour. Maybe two.

"I'll be back soon," he promised. "Before she dies. We  _are_  going to talk about this later."

* * *

He'd left her alone. In the hole. In the stink. It didn't matter that she couldn't smell it after an hour - it was clinging to her clothes and going into her lungs with every breath. Hate, pity, and fear swirled around and attached themselves to a single target. The  _woman._ C. Pemberton, Arcade had said. It was printed on the uniform that he had declined to try to detach from her skin. It would cause more pain that it would relieve, he said.

"That's a stupid name," she called out from across the room, as far away as she could get and still see the slow rise and fall of her chest. "'Pem-ber-ton.' What's the 'C' stand for, anyway?" There was no answer, not that she had expected any. She didn't know why she was talking or why she felt so hostile, but she was. It was all she could do not to kill her, even though it was too late now.

For an instant, before, when Arcade had moved the wasted body slightly and the cracked lips had opened, Megan had been sure that secrets were about to come spilling out. She'd climbed to her feet, ready to shout them down. But it had only been another gasping, pained breath, and she'd allowed herself to relax. For now. What if she did talk?

"I should have killed you the first day," she said out loud. "I don't care if we were friends once. I don't care how far we traveled together. All I care about is what you know."

Hours passed and he didn't return. She paced. She worried. She found herself struggling to remember whether she'd already given the woman her medication already. At one point, she put on her armor, intending to march to the silo and demand that Arcade come back, to tell him that she couldn't do this alone. She only got halfway before she turned back, ashamed. He'd be disappointed. Again.

The day passed. Then the night. Then another day. Every three hours, an alarm. Another needle. Another long period of wondering what had happened, followed by an unsatisfying light doze. She didn't notice it when C. Pemberton died. In the small corner of her mind that was still rational, she guessed it had been two or three doses of med-x ago. Certainly, the body was cold and what fluid remained had settled in the lowest points. In trying to look as little as possible at what she was doing, Megan had totally failed to recognize this. By then, it had been almost forty hours since Arcade had left. The middle of the night, if she was reading her clock right. And she was alone with…  _that_.

Her hands itched to bury it. There was a hole ready. Lead-lined body bags in one of the supply chests. She knew exactly the steps to take. But she  _couldn't_. Arcade would come back and assume the worst - that she'd killed the woman and covered up the evidence. It was exactly the sort of thing she would do. Had almost done, many times. She dropped her face into her hands.  _Had_  she killed the woman? Double- or triple-dosed her in the haze that never went away now? She might have. She must have. Because otherwise Arcade would have come back like he promised.

Megan decided to put the body in a bag, just so it'd be ready when he came back. She was concerned, probably irrationally, that it would dissolve if left too long. It took a long time because she was afraid to touch it. Couldn't find gloves and didn't like the way the exposed skin gave under her fingers. It was slippery and gaseous, a disgusting nightmare. It was also poisoning her, as her Geiger counter continuously reminded her.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm sorry for this. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner." Finally, with a squelch and a dull tearing sound as the adhered skin pulled away from the cot's service, C. Pemberton was gone, safely zipped away. Megan staggered away and vomited what little she had left into the bunker's toilet, then washed with rubbing alcohol, there not being much water left. It stung and made her eyes burn, but it made her feel clean. On the outside, at least. Inside, she was a miasma of pain, corruption, and fear.

Time for radaway again. It might help. There wasn't much food left, not that she wanted any, but still her stomach rolled unpleasantly at every movement. This dose pulled her down immediately. She didn't even remember pulling out the needle before she fell asleep. One minute, she was in the chair, staring at the bag with its unholy contents, her overwrought mind pleading for it to disappear. At the next, she was jolted awake, aware that  _someone_  was coming through the hatch above. The excuses were pouring out of her mouth before she had turned around.

"I didn't kill her. She died. You were gone so long! I swear, I didn't kill her." She stopped, confused. Was she seeing double or had Arcade found a friend? A second bulky figure was descending the ladder to join the first, both so thoroughly covered in dust - which looked a weird, orange-brown under the cold lighting - that she couldn't make out any identifying marks on the armor at all. They were joined by a third and a fourth in short order, all identical.

When none of them spoke, Megan looked around, taking stock of her situation. Her armor was twenty feet away, along with her weapon. She'd even kicked her boots off at some point. If they attacked, she was helpless.

She spoke up, trying and failing to keep the tremble out of her voice. "Who  _are_  you?" They said nothing, only stood and looked at her. She grew impatient and approached the closest one. "This is my place. Identify yourself!" She heard the slow sound of bare feet on the floor, and then a hand covered with red and purple blotches fell on her shoulder. She tried to twist away, but the bony, slimy fingers clung to her, their grip stronger than they had been in life. It was trying to turn her around to face the grotesque thing behind her. She fought it, keeping her eyes shut tight, refusing to look. "Let go of me!" Her hand got a weak grip on the pinioning arm, only to feel the flesh melt away, making it harder to keep her grip. "No! Please, please, please let me go-"

"Wake up, Megan. Wake up! It's me."

She stopped struggling. She was still in her chair. C. Pemberton was on her cot, concealed in the bag. Arcade was standing beside her, still in his armor, his helmet off and his hair horribly untidy. She could have cried in relief and hugged him, not caring that he was probably still angry. "It's you. I didn't kill her. I  _really_  didn't."

"I believe you. I was gone longer than I said it would be. I'm sorry for that." He was about to say something else, but something disturbing in the corner of her eye made her interrupt him.

"Arcade… is there someone else in the room?" she whispered. "Radaway dreams, you know. I don't know what's real right now." Behind him, she had spotted yet another person in power armor, standing by the ladder and staring all around the room.

He didn't even look where she was pointing. "That's Veronica."

Megan goggled at him. He met her gaze levelly, uncommonly haggard and serious. "Why the hell would you bring  _her_  here?"

"Because something terrible has happened."


	11. Farewells

"Don't lump me in with that one, Felicity. But really, what's one more eyebot gone? It's one of  _theirs_ , you know." Veronica left Megan to her obliterated eyebot and walked away with the sharp-tongued Follower, giving as good as she got in return, demanding the respect and consideration due her. Sure, she was Brotherhood ( _ex-Brotherhood_ , she reminded herself grimly), but that didn't mean she deserved to be treated like a criminal. She had skills, a solid education, and a willingness to serve humanity. They'd accept her in the end, just wait and see.

Veronica would have said anything, done almost anything to differentiate herself from Megan - a sad, cringing puppy who always looked so  _hurt_  when someone snapped at her - and that meant keeping herself separate from the other outsiders. She'd outgrown her contempt and  _most_  of her fear of Lily, but she still avoided the creature and her unwanted gifts of clothes and affection. As for Dr. Gannon, she ignored him in public, but sought him out in private. If anyone understood what she was going through, it was him, even if she did have to put up with his disapproval and condescension.

"I forgive you for being Brotherhood," he told her out of the blue, a few days after the work had begun in earnest. He was using the augmented strength of the hated black armor to hold up a panel on the side of the missile steady while Veronica unscrewed the last of the bolts. Balanced together on the narrow scaffolding, they could speak and not be heard over the noise of tools and machinery in the echoing chamber. "Not that you hurt me personally, but I've always had a problem with them. My father died in a Brotherhood trap," he explained, almost sounding apologetic. "I was very young. For that reason, I was very unhappy when Megan convinced you to tag along."

 _I regret that too_ , Veronica seethed inside. "How magnanimous of you. You forgive me for something that I can't help. For an incident that happened before I was born." She wanted to add that his father probably deserved what he got, but restrained herself in time. There was no point in hitting someone who wouldn't fight back. "Both of  _my_  parents were killed by the NCR. You don't see me harboring mass resentment."

"No," he said quietly. "I think you're more angry at your own people for the situation you find yourself in. You're homeless, friendless, and purposeless. What do you plan to do next?"

Despite the the harshness of the inquiry, he sounded kind and curious, but Veronica wasn't in a mood to accept favors. "You're not much better off,  _friend_. From where I'm standing, the person you've staked your future on is a huge, fucking liability in almost every way." As if on cue, they both looked down at Megan on the level below. It looked as if she'd just dropped something important down into the well at the base on the missile and Ignacio had finally lost his patience with her.

He sighed. "She means well. Most of the time. You might at least talk to her. The two of you have more in common than you'd like to admit. She doesn't hold the Sierra Madre against you. That was against my advice, actually."

She sneered. "Yeah? She really should. I told her repeatedly that we were enemies. She's pathetic if she thinks I'd still want to be friends."

"There are worse personality traits," he answered blandly, eyes fixed on the wall. "I consider unchecked animosity to be worse than unfounded optimism, but that's just me."

Veronica shut her mouth tightly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. She undid the last bolt with a violent wrench and he took the full weight of the steel panel and staggered away with it, the wooden scaffolding creaking dangerously under his feet until he reached the solid platform. She watched him go, once more reviewing the steps that had brought her to this point, where the only person who treated her well was this sanctimonious offshoot of her people's worst enemy.

A few more weeks, and they'd be done breaking down the most dangerous components in and around this silo. Any further exploration would have to await better protective gear than the Followers had with them. Soon, Dr. Gannon and his unlucky albatross would be gone, and Veronica would be free to court the Followers alone, resting on her own merits. She thought she'd do better that way.

* * *

Returning to base camp after his disturbing discoveries in Hopeville, Arcade didn't know how to relieve his feelings before he went back among other people. It wasn't his nature to scream or throw things; he'd much rather retreat to the sanctity of his own company and the sanity he knew he'd find there. A break wasn't in the cards for today, however; the woman whose clothing identified her as 'C. Pemberton' might be an enemy to everything he held dear, but she deserved better end-of-life treatment than Megan would or could provide. He had to get back to her as soon as possible.

Even on a bad day - and this was a very bad one - Arcade knew to respect his gear. He could still hear Judah's measured voice from long ago:  _Take care of it and it will take care of you_. Either Megan hadn't been listening on the equivalent day of her own training or - more likely - that gangster's bullet had jarred the lesson loose along with so much else. Like her sense of human decency, for example. He seethed as he did a perfunctory cleaning of the joints of his own suit and double-checked the pistol clipped to the belt.  _How_ could  _she?_ he wondered.  _What kind of person does something like that?_

Knowing that he wouldn't be long, he was tempted to leave the suit standing by the entrance, assembled and ready to go, but old habits of secrecy and shame made him pack it away. It bothered him deeply - today more than ever - to leave such visible evidence of his past lying around for anybody to see. No. He'd fold it up, push it into the closet, and temporarily close the door on that reminder of how far he'd fallen.

After a moment's indecision, he began to clean and sort Daisy's discarded armor for storage as well, as Megan hadn't bothered. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do with it - it could stay here until the world ended, for all he cared - but he hated to see it in this condition; perhaps, in the time the chore took, he would find the serenity he needed to complete his errand.

He'd deliver whatever explanation he could muster to Ignacio and do a few minutes of packing. After that, he'd be gone, joined at the hip to someone he couldn't trust, on the outside hope that she'd be better once she was out of this godforsaken valley. Only, Arcade knew, vengeance didn't usually work like that. Bloodshed begat more bloodshed until someone broke the cycle, and Megan was no peacemaker.

 _I could leave_ , the despairing part of him said, the part that was still staring in horror at that travesty of a sickroom.  _Disappear into any small settlement on the fringes of the NCR. Without a human millstone tied around my neck, I could do it._

 _I won't_ , he answered himself firmly but unconvincingly.  _There's something worth saving there. I've seen it._  As difficult as it was to bear sometimes, Arcade felt responsible for Megan - for her collective actions since they'd met, the good, the bad, and the ugly taken as a lump sum, and for her always-precarious well being. There was another reason for his half-suppressed guilt and it floated to the top of his consciousness now.  _How much better off might she be if I hadn't told her who she was?_

That was probably nonsense, he decided after a moment, wiping the grease from his hands and striding down the tunnel. Ulysses had even then been crouched to spring and the Remnants had been needed to counter the worst the Legion could muster. Arcade himself had been a reminder of a past she'd been lucky to forget for a time. In short, there had been triggers enough without that damned identification chip. Given the unlikely condition of her survival, it felt almost inevitable that she'd end up here in the Divide sooner or later, letting it transform her without any obvious resistance.

Still, he missed the young woman he'd gotten to know in Goodsprings - the one who had begged him to read to her, spent hours ferreting out native plants for him to simmer down, and who'd been transparently unaware of all of this. He wasn't sure how much of that person was left in the figure walking around in power armor, digging mass graves, and torturing helpless prisoners, but he remained hopeful that they could rediscover days like that again. Had to believe it. For a man who'd spent a lifetime shunning commitment, he was invested now _._ Painfully so.

"The Enclave didn't make us family," he said slowly, tasting the words to see if they were true. "That began before." Thus resolved, he went looking for the next difficult conversation.

* * *

"Where have you been all morning?" Ignacio asked with barely-concealed irritation. "I wanted you to perform an autopsy on that U.S. army general."

"He died of a self-inflicted gunshot post-ghoulification," Arcade said distractedly. "You don't really need more than that, do you?"

"Obviously that's how he died, but  _when_? It might give us some answers on how long there was a military presence here in Hopeville. If we're to construct a timeline of events here, we need to know the backgrounds involved."

 _Better cut to the quick_ , Arcade decided.  _No sense in drawing this out._  " _Actually_ , as fascinating as that sounds, I have to leave now. Today. This very hour. I'm here to say goodbye. Can you see Lily home to Westside? She can make it back to Jacobstown from there."

"I can  _try_. Does she really need help, though?" The scientist set down the yellowed printout he'd been reading, and turned his attention fully on Arcade, "You said you'd stay until we were done with Hopeville. That the Courier was in no hurry. That you didn't want to cross the desert in the winter. What changed?" Loud and clear, through his body language and tone, came a clear message:  _I don't want you to go_. Even if it was just for the heavy lifting and the occasional autopsy, Arcade took a certain amount of pleasure in the knowledge that he was needed and almost relented then and there. The memory of what lay outside steeled him to do what he had to, however.

"Megan found an Enclave survivor. An old comrade, apparently. This woman is dying and there's nothing I can do, but the discovery has brought up some issues that I really need to address with her. Most of all, I need to get her out of the Divide. We can't stay any longer."

"Oh."

The brevity of this answer infuriated Arcade. He'd expected more. He  _deserved_  more, after all of the information he'd offered up, all of the work he'd done without complaint. "'Oh'? That's all you have to say?"

Ignacio lowered his eyes and picked up his papers again. "What do you want me to say? That I'm  _alright_  with your entanglements? I'm not. Had it just been your childhood, I could forgive that. But you've made a conscious choice to rejoin something you should have left behind. It's been heartbreaking to see you go down this road and I'm glad I won't be there to see how it ends." Before Arcade could answer, he added, "Do we need to be on the lookout for  _more_  of your Enclave 'comrades'?"

Any thoughts Arcade had of protest or argument died away when he saw the look in Ignacio's eyes. Whatever they'd had, whatever he'd imagined might happen on this trip, was over and done with now. Really, it had been for a long time. Arcade answered shortly, "No. I don't think so, anyway." Then he walked away, afraid of what he'd say if he stayed.

It was with an ill-temper that Arcade collected his strewn-about belongings, carefully wrapping his precious books against the elements and storing his other personal belongings carefully in their place. What he had wasn't enough for the trip, he knew. Their survival depended on finding more of everything - water in plentiful qualities, food, and a lot more medical supplies if they were unlucky. As they often were.

He was on his way to the tunnel - staggering a little under the weight of his pack, to which he had added several interesting items since their arrival - when Veronica caught him at the threshold.

"So, you're leaving. Just like that?"

Not in the mood for whatever abuse she intended to heap on his head, he moved to push past her. "Just like that. Try not to cry when I'm gone."

"I'll miss you," she said, sounding surprisingly sincere. She grinned humorlessly. "A little, anyway, despite the company you keep. Good luck out there. You're going to need it."

Despite his distraction, despite  _everything_ , he couldn't help but feel touched by even this lackluster farewell. Her apathetic goodwill was better than the cold brush-off Ignacio had given him. "Thank you. Good luck with… whatever you end up doing. I hope you find what you're looking for. Happiness, whatever that means to you. You deserve better than what the Brotherhood has become."

She shrugged, as if it didn't matter, and stepped aside. "Send me a postcard."

There was nothing more to be said. The scribe stepped aside and Arcade plodded forward, his shoulder already aching from the weight. Well, it wouldn't matter soon. In armor, he wouldn't feel it at all.

He stopped in his tracks when he heard an explosion, somewhere on the opposite side of the silo, but still far too close. It sounded as if something had gone off inside. Arcade shot one last look at his escape route - and the weapons which lay in that direction - and eased his bag to the floor, pausing only to retrieve the satchel with his medical supplies.

"Did someone mishandle the ordnance, do you think?" Veronica muttered, keeping up with him easily as they ran toward the noise.

"Maybe." His agile mind had already supplied several other possibilities, as any of several groups - from the NCR to dispossessed Legion forces - could have decided to come calling. "Did that sound like anything we've found in here to you?"

"Not really. Could be demolition charges," Veronica panted. "Designed for construction. Raiders use 'em to crack open vaults and the like."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

They met the expedition leaders going the same way, joined by several of the others wearing looks of alarm. The guards had guns (though one had forgotten his pants), but no one else appeared to be holding anything more threatening than a wrench. Together, they made for the only direction that made sense: the entrance.

"I thought you were gone already," Ignacio muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "How hard is it to walk out the door?"

Arcade forgave the tone - the man was frightened, after all - but not the earlier slight. "I  _could_  have left, you know. I'm just here in case someone's hurt."

An answering sigh. "Thank you. I'm afraid it wasn't our doing, though. That came from outside."

With a word and a gesture, Ignacio held them all near the control station by the window, a nervous cluster of people looking between the large steel doors and their leader.

"We're not going to shoot first," he said calmly. "If they - whoever  _they_  are - come in guns blazing, then we'll lock this door and retreat to take up our own weapons. We will defend ourselves. Otherwise, we'll talk to the newcomers. It may be that they'll agree to a peaceful resolution."

Ezekiel was shaking his head in disagreement. Arcade noticed that the hard-bitten explorer already had his pistol drawn. He wished fervently that he had his own gun with him now. "Rivas, they've already shown that a reinforced blast door is no obstacle to them. And I seriously doubt they'll be dissuaded from their course by  _talking_."

The guards took a step backward as another round of explosions rocked the door frame and dust trickled from the ceiling. Some of the apprentices were already stealing into the hallway, talking in low, frightened tones among themselves. Arcade didn't blame them. He wanted to run away too. Beside him, Veronica clutched a metal bar she had found somewhere, muttering a litany of self-encouragement and profanity under her breath.

"If this ends badly…" he began, intending to say something kind and generic and appropriate, but he didn't have a chance to finish. With a deafening crash, the bars on the door, which had been built to withstand a direct missile attack, gave out entirely, opening inward to admit the boogeymen from Arcade's worst nightmares and the last enemy he had expected.

 _Of course it would be them. The perfect ending to a perfect day_. He shot a suspicious look at Veronica, but her face wore a look of shock and dismay that he didn't think she could have faked. Her impromptu melee weapon clattered to the floor as she dropped to her knees and covered her eyes.

Authoritative and surprising calm, Ignacio spoke quietly to the group at large. "The Brotherhood of Steel have historically been rational. We will surrender. We will not attempt to fight them. Nobody escalate this." He stepped forward, in front of his people, hands raised and waited for the intruders to draw near. When the phalanx in power armor had covered half the distance between them, the round-shouldered scientist raised his voice to be heard above the clank of more than two dozen metal-plated boots. "We are with the Followers of the Apocalypse. Our interest in this site is peaceable. Disarmament only."

"We will be the judge of your motivations," the figure in front growled. "Do you speak for these people?"

"I do." Ignacio drew himself up proudly, all five and a half feet of him, and Arcade felt a pang of admiration for the man, even as he wanted to tear his eyes away, terrified of what would happen to him.

"Then we can talk, so long as no one steps out of line. We are commandeering this site by the authority we inherited from Roger Maxson. What was the property of the United States government is now ours to safeguard." The self-proclaimed heir of the greatest military in the world took off his helmet, revealing a coarse, bearded face familiar to Arcade: one of Veronica's searchers whom he'd had the misfortune to meet outside of Westside. He gulped and tried to turn away, but the press of people crowded behind him made escape impossible.

The man swept his glare over the crowd, thankfully passing over Arcade's face without a glimmer of recognition. "Surrender any personal weapons. Immediately. Any attempt to withhold anything will be considered an act of aggression."

Amidst the shuffling, clinking sounds of guns and clubs being pushed forward, Arcade had a sudden, horrible realization. The Brotherhood's supposed willingness to "talk" would not extend to the only nonhuman in their party. Lily had not responded to the attack yet, but this meant she might walk in at any moment. If that happened, then no one would be safe, especially not the mutant herself.

"Excuse me," Arcade began, as politely as he could, ignoring the punch that Ezekiel threw at his shoulder. He didn't  _want_  to draw attention to himself, but this badly needed to be said. Veronica shot him a terrified look from the shadow where she still crouched miserably, hiding her face. "There's a-"

The big man interrupted him, eyes glinting with suspicious interest.  _Now_  he recognized him. " _You_. I've seen you before. Outside of that slum north of New Vegas. You were coming back from a family reunion, you said. You had a monster with you then."

Cursing the good memory of the man in front of him, Arcade tried to remain calm. "Yes… about that 'monster'. Once she was a woman named Lily Bowen. She's a relatively-stabilized nightkin, probably resting in her room right now." He gestured vaguely in the right direction, not taking his eyes off the man. "I need a chance to talk her down, to convince her to leave. Otherwise, I'm afraid someone will get hurt - one of your men, perhaps, Paladin." It was absurd, him pleading with someone like this on behalf of a mutant, but that was the situation he found himself in.

"It's  _Sentinel_ ," he growled. "Sentinel Roger Goncalves, recently of the Capital Wasteland. We're not letting anybody walk out of here until we have some answers, especially not a mutant. What's your name?"

Arcade's brain stuttered on this simple question. Of all of the lies he'd rehearsed over the years, a false name had somehow never been one of them. The Brotherhood had never retrieved Enclave enlistment records, so far as he knew. It had been safe to be a Gannon. Until now, with his name publicly pinned to the Courier's reputation. After hesitating a moment too long, he stammered it out anyway, hoping the other man would take his reluctance for anxiety. Perhaps the Brotherhood had been too distracted by their own troubles to track the details of Megan's trial.

"Do you have a problem with the Brotherhood of Steel, civilian?" the man growled, leaning forward so close that he could see the popped vessels in his eyes.  _Someone needs to watch his blood pressure,_ Arcade thought to himself in the corner of his mind that wasn't in hysterics. "One might think you had something to hide."

Thankful that he'd left his pistol with his armor -  _God, if they find that!_ \- he managed a cool response somehow. Might as well go out like someone his father would have been proud of, standing on his feet and facing his fear. "I'm a peaceful man. This is a peaceful expedition. I take issue with anyone who leads with a show of force."

What Goncalves would have answered to that, Arcade never knew. A distraction drew the attention of the crowd. The scene that played out before him took on the creeping inexorability of a bad fever-dream. He knew how it would end as soon as he heard Lily's voice and there was nothing he could do.

Maybe she'd heard the commotion. Maybe she'd just now finished her baking and wanted to share. Her timing couldn't have been worse. "WHO WANTS COOKIES?"

She was so  _loud_. To the unacclimated ear, it didn't matter what she said. It sounded for the all the world like a threat. Arcade tried to move forward, intending to place himself in between the power-armored bigots and Lily, but the man in front of him stiff-armed him aggressively in the chest without a thought, driving him to his knees and knocking the air from his lungs. He could only watch, gasping for his next breath, as the inevitable came to pass.

Leo never did come out. Lily, bless her, had tried so hard to move on from her innate dislike of people in power armor. She didn't even blink, but held out the tray to them, moving forward far too quickly for anyone's comfort.

"New friends! Would you like to try one of Grandma's cookies? Careful - they're hot!"

Her "tray" was a discarded panel from the missile - probably one of the ones Arcade himself had removed - her "cookies" blackened disks that smelled of burnt rubber. The invading force took an automatic step backward as the barrels of assorted heavy weapons lowered on her. Her wide smile didn't slip a notch. Leo was a survivor type, "Grandma" not so much. For an instant, the moment seemed frozen and Arcade tried to seize it in time to salvage the situation.

"Lily,  _lie down on the floor_. Lie down on your face,  _slowly_ , and no one will get hurt." Tenderness was Megan's chosen language for convincing Lily to do anything, but Arcade knew he couldn't manage it, certainly not frightened as he was. Nightkin in general were programmed to respond to the voice of authority. He did his best to capture that resonance. He could hear barked calls of alarm from the soldiers, and a rumbled order from their leader, but all of his focus was on Lily.

Wonder of wonders, she  _listened_ to him this time. When he'd given her instructions before, her obedience was hit or miss. Maybe she saw the fear in his eyes or heard the urgency in his voice. Maybe the sternness he'd mustered from somewhere reminded her of the voice she'd followed in the Master's army. Still no one else spoke or moved, apparently waiting to see what would happen next. Lily halted, stooped… and dropped the tray, preparing to fall to her knees.

Arcade flinched at the sound of metal crashing to the tile floor, drawing his hand away with a hiss as one of the smoking baked goods rolled into it.  _It smells even worse close up_ , he thought abstractly.  _What on earth did she put in them?_  The assembled company tensed at the noise as well, but to their credit, they didn't fire. Arcade allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. "Just stay there Lily. Everything will be… fine." He stumbled over the words, knowing this to be a lie even as he said it. He chanced a look at the hulking figure still standing above him and prepared another futile plea.

"How does this end, Sentinel? She hasn't hurt anybody. Will you let her go? You have it in your power."

Ignoring him, the Brotherhood leader stepped toward the prostrate Nightkin. Lily lifted her massive head a few inches off the ground, looking up curiously. Arcade caught her gaze and held it, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. A part of him wanted to shout the alarm that was going off in his own head, to call Leo down on the heads of the invaders.  _Danger! Fight! Flee!_  If it had only been him in the line of fire, he might have done just that, and died along with Lily and perhaps a half-dozen of the hated faction. The presence of the Followers standing around kept him silent, however. If there was a rampage - and, with Leo, there  _would_  be - people would get hurt who didn't deserve to be. The apprentices, young people just beginning their lives. The guards. Ezekiel. Ignacio. It was better this way. He swallowed the guilt that threatened to bubble over into a foolhardy act of imprudence.  _She's only a mutant_ , a small, inner voice reminded him unbidden. Arcade hated himself a little in that moment.

"Hold still, Grandma. This will be over in a moment." Not tearing his gaze away from those trusting eyes, he made himself grovel, almost babbling now. He didn't know if he'd ever see Megan again - right now, that seemed unlikely - but he knew he wouldn't be able to face her if he didn't at least try to save Lily. Somewhere beside him, he heard Ignacio making a similar defense, and Arcade added his own words to the attempt. "Please, sir. She's harmless now, I swear. I'm  _responsible_  for her _-"_

The man cut him off. "Be quiet, civilians. I won't warn you again." He lowered his voice then, almost talking to himself, though Arcade could still hear him clearly. "Yes, Colvin. I remember the words. 'Be free of your torment, hapless creature. May your soul survive this release. I commend you to-'" The ending to his prayer was lost in the fully-charged laser burst that he unleashed into the back of Lily's skull. Mutants were tough, but they weren't built to withstand that kind of damage. Blackened vertebrae jutted through the sloughing skin on her nape and the stench of burning flesh mingled with that of Lily's last gift. Death was instantaneous. Mercifully, he supposed.

Before her body had stopped convulsing, before he had a chance to evaluate the advisability of the move, Arcade was on his feet, spitting his rage at the executioner. "You  _monster_. Trust the Brotherhood to create a problem where none existed, then solve it with a weapon." The target of his ire rounded on him, but he didn't back down. "That deformed, pitiful creature was worth ten of you. If there's any justice, you'll end the same way."

Consumed by anger, Arcade was so focused on the man's red, glowering face that he didn't even see the punch that laid him out.

* * *

Something very bad had happened, but he couldn't remember what. His jaw hurt, yes, but his head was  _killing_  him. Had there been an accident? Against his better judgment, Arcade opened his eyes.

"Oh good, you're awake," a hollow, dead sort of voice droned from beside him. "I was getting bored."

"Veronica," he began. It hurt even to talk. He tongued a loose tooth and tasted blood. "What happened?"

"You mouthed off to that so-called ' _Sentinel_ ' one too many times. Guy has a short fuse." As his vision cleared, he saw her sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, studying him with amiable disinterest. "I have to say, I didn't know you had it in you. I'm impressed. Sure, you went all in for a  _mutant_ , but still, I'm impressed. You can't take a punch though."

Pieces of the immediate past were coming back, slotting into place one by one, and the complete picture wasn't good. Lily. The Brotherhood. Megan. The memory of where he had left her made him shiver.  _What if she gets tired of waiting and comes back?_  It was exactly the sort of thing she would do. And if she did, she'd run into her death the minute she stepped through those doors. Thinking quickly - not an easy task at the moment - Arcade asked, "How long have I been out?"

"A couple of days. I was ready to pull the plug and claim your cot."

" _What?!_ " It was for himself he worried now. A knockout was bad enough, but long-term unconsciousness was very bad. It meant brain damage, the kind of damage that altered personalities and affected cognition.

"Relax. It's been maybe five minutes. They're dividing up the 'prisoners' - that's us - into different rooms and deciding what to do. I asked someone to help me carry you up here, since your stuff's still where you left it. You haven't missed anything."

Arcade closed his eyes. The lights in the ceiling had auras, and they were far too bright for him. Now that she mentioned it, he could heard loud-voiced conversations coming from the corridor beyond, where Lily's body doubtless still lay. He swallowed the urge to vomit and channeled his discomfort into a pale imitation of his earlier anger. "Is this funny to you? You just watched your people execute a defenseless being, and you're making  _jokes_?" This outburst provoked a dizzying stab of pain that made white starbursts bloom on the underside of his eyelids. His stomach lurched and he rolled to the side. "Stimpak. I need a stimpak," he told her through gritted teeth.

A careless finger poked his neck. "I already hit you with one, there. I'm not uncaring. Take it easy. There's nothing we can do right now." She sighed. "You should have left when the going was good, Dr. Gannon. This isn't going to end well for you or your other pet."

The stimpaks worked, slowly but surely, both the one Veronica had given him and a second he used to target the damage to his face. The loosened tooth re-rooted itself correctly, something he felt absurdly grateful for, even under present circumstances. Not many people in the Wasteland had a full set of teeth and he'd always prided himself in his good dental hygiene. The swelling went down and the pounding in his head settled into bearable territory. A full recovery would take time. At least his glasses were still in one piece.

In the meantime, with nothing better to do, he let himself lapse into somnolence, resting, mourning, and trying not to think about the dangers of the immediate future. From the conversations he overheard, he slowly became aware of the Brotherhood's purpose for being there. With sad irony, it was clear that their stated aims for being there weren't too far off from Ignacio's . For all of that faction's downsides, they had a horror of nuclear weapons to rival that of even the most ardent Follower. Goncalves - apparently a zealot from D. C. sent to California to breathe new life into the flagging West Coast Brotherhood - had caught wind of the Followers' expedition somehow, and taken it upon himself to ensure that it was done  _properly_ , which is to say, under his oversight.

 _Probably a vanity project on his part_ , Arcade mused.  _A popular cause. Something a dusty old elder hiding in his bunker could get behind. Something an ambitious man would capitalize upon to consolidate power._ Not that it mattered, really. The Brotherhood would  _probably_  take care of what remained of the missile components… and "confiscate" everything else for later use against their enemies.

It was early evening before he saw Ignacio again, looking very small beside the hulking figure that escorted him in. The soldier - one of Goncalves' lieutenants whose nameplate Arcade couldn't read from where he lay - growled down at the scientist. "There. As you can see, he's alive. Happy?"

" _Are_  you alright, Dr. Gannon?" Ignacio asked. His eyes were downcast and defeated, but the concern in them was clear, even as the formal address created distance between them.

 _This is devastating to him_ , Arcade thought sadly.  _He needed this to go off well._

"I'm fine, Dr. Rivas." He tried to convey as much comfort as he could in a smile, but it stretched the sore muscles in his jaw and he gave it up. "Don't worry about me."

Ignacio smiled back, a troubled, nervous spasm. Turning to the man waiting impatiently beside him, he said wearily. "Alright. I'll answer your leader's questions now and instruct my people to do the same. As you'll see, we have nothing to hide."

Arcade knew that the Followers were being interviewed, one by one, as the day went on. Every time someone came to collect him, however, he feigned sleep, pretending to be injured worse than he was. If he could delay, maybe he'd have a chance to get his story straight with someone. When night came, they left him alone, though he slept lightly for their constant tramping through the room, searching for items of interest.

He woke in the early morning from a troubled dream to someone nudging him in the ribs with a steel-toed boot. His half-remembered nightmare had him convinced, just for a moment, that Megan had come back. That they'd caught or killed her, that the game was up. Or that they'd discovered the hidden sets of power armor. He noticed that Veronica was gone, but her belongings remained. Had she been taken away for further questioning or something more sinister?

The woman who'd woken him peered closely at him, then said sternly. "You're shamming. The Sentinel wants to see you now. Follow me. No funny business, or you'll get worse than a little tap."

They passed the sullen, anxious faces of the other expedition members as they descended, clustered together in groups of two or three. Goncalves had installed himself in a security office on the second floor, one of the few with working lights and a terminal.

Taking a seat across from the man, Arcade didn't waste any time beating around the bush. "What have you done with Veronica?" He had failed Lily; he didn't want Veronica on his conscience too.

"The apostate scribe has not been harmed, merely taken aside for instruction. She will be judged appropriately for her crimes by our people, but is not your concern. No one seems to have a very clear idea of what your role here is, Dr. Gannon. The only thing I am certain of is that you are  _not_  with the Followers of the Apocalypse." He said the name with a sneer.

Marveling that no one had given him up yet, Arcade launched into his story, most of which was true. "I was educated in a Followers school. I was a member in good standing for twenty years. My participation in this project was due to long-standing acquaintanceship with the organizers."

"Why did you leave?"

Arcade hardly had to reach for the lie at all. "I disapproved of our leaders' extensive collusion with the NCR in Vegas before the Legion advance."

"You disapprove of the NCR? Interesting. That's one thing we have in common." Without missing a beat, he switched tacks. "There's talk of another outsider like yourself. Someone who's missing."

"There was a mercenary who came out with us as an extra guard," Arcade said slowly. He didn't know what the man knew. "She apparently had plans of profiting from the weaponry we found here, which is something we couldn't tolerate, obviously. She left before sunrise two days ago."

"Really? My interviews with the others suggested that the two of you were close friends. They said nothing about stolen weaponry."

Arcade attempted a nonchalant shrug. "She was a violent little guttersnipe when I found her. Had to be, to survive alone in a place like Westside. I took pity on her, had hopes that the good influences of the Followers might effect a moral transformation. Clearly, I was wrong."

"So you wouldn't have anything to say to our bringing her in?" He paused, as if to measure Arcade's response. "My men found her trails.  _Someone_  has been very busy out there."

Arcade wouldn't let himself be baited into a reaction. If they had found Megan - or if anyone had given up the truth of her actual identity - the game was up. There would be no getting off easy, no possibility of escape. If they had, however, he doubted that this conversation would be progressing as civilly as it was. He wondered what on earth they thought of her graveyard.

"Obviously, I don't want you to  _hurt_  her. A mutant is one thing, but if you can't manage to capture a solitary woman without murder… thankfully, I don't imagine she's still around at this point. She was ready to haul off what she'd scavenged the last time I saw her." He mentally crossed his fingers. It had now been over a day since he'd left her in the bunker, promising to return imminently. How long before she abandoned her post?

"How was she exploring the town at all? We've investigated thoroughly. Even in power armor, it's an inhospitable place."

"It  _is_  much worse than we'd anticipated, despite all the stories from travelers. She'd rigged up a reinforced hazmat suit," he lied glibly. "Never did share it, either. I stepped out there once to take soil samples. Never again."

He questioned him for another hour. He gave up nothing, but he knew it was just a matter of time before the ax came down. Someone hoping to save their own skin or protect the expedition at large would give him up sooner or later. He didn't  _think_  Ignacio would betray him, but Ezekiel might, to protect himself and the others. Any of the young ones might do the same. Despite his worry, he returned to his cot and slept again. He woke up when one of them dragged Veronica back into the room and deposited her there.

After observing their total lack of resistance, the Brotherhood no longer bothered to hover over them much, at least not at this end of the complex. They'd seen for themselves by now that exploration of the town was out of the reach of people with ordinary gear, and hadn't bothered to stake a permanent guard on the exit tunnel. Only a handful of guards remained on this level and the various groupings of prisoners it contained; the others were hard at work exploring the town and cataloging the dangers of the silo itself.

When the last patrol of the day returned, a dusty quartet of men or women stomping through their temporary quarters without so much as a 'by-your-leave' and tracking red dirt through the large room, Arcade realized that no one currently stood between him and freedom. If he could reach his armor undetected, have the time to put it on, then he could be in the wind and on his way to the well-hidden bunker before the Brotherhood knew what was happening. He would need help to accomplish this, however. Under the circumstances, there was only one option.

"Veronica," he whispered. Ignoring him, she lay where they'd left her, crying quietly on her cot. He stood up, earning a suspicious look from the guard passing by in the corridor and sat down on the floor beside her. "Did they hurt you?"

"No! My people aren't  _barbarians_ ," she spat. "They just made my situation explicitly clear. Go away."

Barely moving his lips, he brought her gradually into his half-formed plan, knowing it was a gamble. "I have an idea. Could save us. Do you know how to wear power armor?"

According to his chronometer, it was evening, closing in on the thirty-six hour mark since he had left Megan behind. He tried not to let anxiety force their pace, tried not to think about how impatient she was, how unpredictable. He and Veronica ate a cold meal as was their habit, consuming it with an attempt at conversation at the deceased general's desk. The splattered brain matter from the long-dead ghoul's last, renunciatory act made it difficult to savor the unappetizing food, but there was another reason for them to be there. The terminal was still live, still wired into Level 1's security.

The scribe had been unwilling at first, and Arcade didn't blame her. She faced a lifetime of servitude; what he proposed was probably a death sentence if they were caught. It all depended on her expertise buying them some time.

They waited until midnight, Veronica slumped over the desk, the picture of defeat whenever any of their captors bothered to look in, tapping quietly at the keyboard at other times. Using his full-to-bursting pack as an impromptu pillow, Arcade stared blankly at the ceiling, glancing idly at his watch with the air of a bored prisoner. He was anything but, however: every nerve was strained to the breaking point. With every creak and groan of the old structure, he imagined that he was hearing Megan's return and the end of their hopes.

"You gonna tell her?" Veronica mumbled from the desk after hours of silence.

Arcade had been somewhere far away, trying to mentally chart a safe course between Utah's badlands and Legion-occupied Arizona. The map, cobbled together from the reports of traders, made it seem so easy. Her question caught him entirely by surprise. "Tell who what?"

"Goncalves hit you pretty hard, didn't he?" she asked scornfully. "I mean, are you going to tell Megan that her precious mutant is dead. I wish you wouldn't. You know she'll take it out on me. She'll probably want to take on the whole squad single-handedly.  _That_  won't end well."

He sighed. "I  _have_  to tell her. When I mention the Brotherhood, that's the first thing she'll ask: what happened to Lily?" He paused a moment. "That's not a secret I could keep from her, not even for her own good. I already tried that once. I'm a  _very_  bad liar. I'll let her know it wasn't your fault, though," he finished lamely. Veronica sniffed without saying anything and resumed her work.

At long last, after their yawning guard had passed by without a second glance, Veronica gave Arcade a nod. Leaving a heap of extra blankets on his cot in a crude facsimile of a sleeping figure, he stepped into the escape tunnel while Veronica activated the timed sequence on the terminal.

Orange lights began to flash almost immediately - thankfully with no audible alarm - and Arcade winced even as the solid door slid firmly shut behind them and locked. They needed a few minutes, and if the Brotherhood caught on immediately, they might be in trouble.

Running beside him as they passed the scrapped wrecks of the silo's defenses, dead turrets and robots, Veronica hissed defensively. "Don't say a word. There wasn't a way to turn those off from that station. It  _is_  localized to this level though…"

Their path sloped upwards and Arcade saved his breath for running. What was done was done. They were in this together. He certainly wasn't about to criticize her work.

"We have ten minutes to get out before these lock too," she puffed. "We have to beat the clock, even if it means suiting up outside."

"We really don't want to do that. You haven't been in that wind." He wondered how long it had been since Veronica had worn power armor. It was standard training for initiates, she had said, but how long ago had that been? He'd find out soon enough how well those skills transferred to their current situation.

It was harder than expected. For starters, Veronica recoiled at the sight of the armor itself, as though she hadn't thought through this all-important step. To her credit, after only a moment's hesitation, she put it on with only verbal reluctance.

"This is an abomination," she grumbled. "If my parents could see me now..."

Arcade laughed for the first time in days, relief making him slightly giddy. " _My_ family would be proud. Willingly putting on power armor, defying the Brotherhood? My father would have expected nothing less."

She gave him a disgusted look before snapping the helmet on. "Four minutes left. We need to go now."

Far behind them, they could hear muffled shouting and dull pounding as the Brotherhood went to work on the security door. Arcade nodded and led the way out into the dusty, red-tinged night. The weather was a boon to them; the wind and the darkness would cover their tracks. By the time Goncalves and his men were ready to pursue them, there'd be nothing to follow and they'd be safely hidden inside the Enclave bunker. He hoped.

If Arcade had been a religious man, he would have offered a prayer up for the expedition he'd abandoned, that none of the others would pay the price for his escape. As it was, he felt guilty for turning his back on them, but didn't know what else he could have done. At a certain point, it would have been worse for them if he had stayed. That's what he told himself, at any rate.

"What are you  _waiting_  for?" Veronica yelled, straining to be heard above the wind. "I don't want to be standing here when they come out and I don't know where this supposed bunker is."

"I'm coming!" With a last, lingering glance behind him, Arcade jogged down into Hopeville and into the next, unknown chapter of his life.


End file.
